


Without Contraries There Is No Progression

by GretchenSinister



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Angst, Blacksand - Freeform, Bloodplay, But only a little, Fluff, M/M, QUICKSAND, Sexytimes, So this fic has everything, William Blake references, a Neil Gaiman cameo, also...um..., exploitation of historical events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-26 00:39:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GretchenSinister/pseuds/GretchenSinister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t know why Sandman comes to him after everything he’s done, after everything that’s happened. He doesn’t know why, but he thinks he doesn’t mind.</p>
<p>(Pitch and Sandy slowly build a relationship; Pitch figures out what he's supposed to be doing and discovers why he hadn't been doing that.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Perchance to Dream

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is extrapolated entirely from the movie and a few pieces of fanart/headcanons that I decided to adopt. Any resemblance between the content of this fic and book canon will likely make me say "what the hell".
> 
> Takes place post-movie.

He doesn’t know why Sandman comes to him after everything he’s done, after everything that’s happened. He doesn’t know why, but he thinks he doesn’t mind.

 

            The first time Sandman came to him, that he remembers, was after one of his battles against the Guardians. Pitch was feeling weak, wounded, almost broken—almost but not quite. That was impossible, or at least he feared it was. He dragged himself to a narrow bed in an especially dark corner of his lair and collapsed upon it. It was difficult for him to sleep at the best of times, and this was not the best of times. So he lay there, exhausted, eyes closed, alone as usual. His mind felt filled with static; every limb ached.

 

             When he saw the golden glimmer of dreamsand through slitted eyes he thought he was imagining it. Why would Sandman come here, now? Pitch had been beaten quite soundly. If they thought he could recover so quickly after a fight like that, then—Pitch’s mouth twitched toward a smile—then he had been doing at least part of his job. But sadly appearances were not matched by any increase in powers, and now he needed rest.

 

            And sleep, if only! To sleep, perchance to dream! What a fear-plagued young man that had been. Of course the real thing to fear back then had been fires in overcrowded, wooden theaters and the disease outbreaks that could be perpetuated from cramming so many unwashed Londoners into so small a space. Pitch allowed his mind to wander, harkening back to the underlying anxiety of those days that allowed him to wander more freely from place to place, to breathe easier. He could picture it all so clearly, right down to the alarmed looks that would dash about the crowd following a cough, the nervous glances at lamps hung just a bit too close to the ever-present wood and straw. Ah, but the lamps were familiar. The prop cannon wasn’t. The thatch caught so easily, burning fierce and bright as the circle of the walls seemed smaller and smaller. So many people pressing against the gates. Fear building and building like the flames, with sudden drops as one by one they moved beyond fear—Pitch shifted uneasily, feeling the familiar sickness of failure wash over him. Just as he was about to open his eyes, the scene shifted, and what really happened unfolded. He saw himself flitting through the city for months and years beforehand, whispering about theater fires in thousands of ears. When it happened, he had felt the rush of their fear flow through him, but the doors had been easily opened. They had been thinking about something like this happening for quite some time, after all. No one had died. As they rushed out he had whispered “Aren’t you forgetting someone?” And at that, one man had gone back inside—Pitch remembered following him—to bring out a child that had been left behind in the burning theater.

 

            The waning moon had seemed to shine brightly on him that night.

 

            When he opened his eyes he realized he was waking. Had he been immersed in memories, or had that been a dream? Not all of it could have been memory. He sat up, and put his feet on the gritty floor near the bed, looking downward, still puzzled by the images now lodging in his mind. Even in the faint, uncertain light of the lair, some of the sand gleamed gold instead of black.

 

            But why would Sandman have been here? And could he have brought him that dream? It didn’t make any sense. Yet he had seen…was seeing now.

 

            Pitch shook his head. No matter what had happened in the past few hours, he was feeling far better than before. Perhaps not well enough to venture to the surface, but better all the same.

 

            Hours passed slowly. As always, there was little for Pitch to do alone. He practiced creating new nightmares, but there was nowhere for them to go. He pressed on all the spaces on the walls that corresponded to the spaces under beds, but the ones that were most permeable were often covered with junk—shoes, old homework, sports equipment, forgotten toys, magazines whose discovery the owner of the bed feared more than any boogeyman, incomprehensible though the contents were to the owner—it would be difficult for him to get through, thin as he was. The small nightmares that could get past the detritus would not be powerful enough to do much of anything when they did get through. Closets were much the same.

 

            It was frustrating, this waiting to get stronger. He felt very strongly that this was not what he was supposed to be doing. He was not meant to stay out of the way, a forgotten shadow. Yet whenever he tried to claim a place outside, he would be beaten back by the guardians. True, so he also suspected that that was not what he was supposed to be doing either, but if the moon had ever offered any clarification he had long forgotten it.

 

            In a final effort to distract himself from his thoughts he pushed through a space under a bed just before bedtime. Even though he had to push aside a box of sweaters, a cat, and a paper skeleton held together with brads, the trip through had been fairly easy. He sensed that the stuff under the bed had been put there expressly to block him—well, not him exactly, but Watterson-esque monsters. Too bad that kind of thinking only made it easier for him to show up.

 

            “NO!” a child’s voice, high and angry. “I don’t want you to brush my hair!”

 

            “Honey, we have to—”

 

            “Noooooooo!” Small feet running towards the bedroom door. Larger ones following behind, slower.

 

            “Well if you won’t let me brush it we’ll have to cut it off!”

 

            “NOOOOOOOOO!”

 

            Pitch could feel that fear, sharp as an electric shock.

 

            “All right, all right. Tomorrow then. We have to, Mags. Now will you at least let me put a towel on your pillow? Your hair’s still soaking wet.”

 

            “No! I’m going to bed all by myself! You’re not allowed.”

 

            A heavy sigh. The door swung open, and light from the hallway sliced into the room. A little hand turned on the bedroom light.

 

            “Good night then, sweetie. Sweet dreams.”

 

            Pitch made a face. Sandman would be here any second now. But a few seconds were all he needed. He peered around the box of sweaters just in time to see the hallway light go off. The little girl, Mags, glanced nervously behind her. On tiptoes, she carefully pulled the door closed until it stood about an inch ajar. Pitch watched with fascination as she turned toward the bed and a look of determination grew on her face. She crouched down. She had practiced for this. Too bad Pitch was far more practiced.

 

            Moving as fast as she could, Mags slapped the light switch off while taking a running start to match any Olympian. Pitch couldn’t help but chuckle as she got within arm’s reach of the underbed and crouched down to leap. As she left the floor, Pitch reached out a hand to grab for her ankle. His hand passed through, of course, but from the way she scrambled under the covers he knew she had felt something. And yet, what an effort! Pitch doubted he had the strength to irregularly tap on the walls. He would need to try to sleep again, and soon. Before going back to his lair, however, he paused to look at Mags. Her wet hair darkened the light blue pillowcase to navy, and it looked long enough for her to sit on. It also sported some impressive rat’s nests that were probably obvious even when her hair was dry and would indeed need to be cut out if not dealt with soon. And that really would be a shame.

 

            He let his mind brush against hers, searching for a fear that might serve his purposes. Ah, there it was. Perfect. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a strand of dreamsand reach toward her window. It would be inside in a moment, but this would only take a moment.

 

            He bent close to Mags’ ear, and whispered, “If you don’t comb out your hair so that the tangles are gone, moths will get caught in it. And flutter, and struggle, and die, and leave moth dust all over your hair that you can’t get out because of all the tangles.” That would do it. He slipped into the darkness under the bed and back to his lair.

 

            Though he felt very weak still, for whatever reason, Pitch didn’t feel like his tiny foray to the surface had been a failure. Perhaps sleep would come easier now.

           

            Sleep did come easier, as did the false memories, followed by the true ones. Or were they dreams? Pitch had a hard time believing they were, but maybe…the traces of dreamsand never seemed to increase, so perhaps it was merely residue from a battle with Sandman that had gotten caught in his robe. Yet still his rest was neither dark nor silent.

 

            Flowing through his mind came scenes of death he knew well. Boys too young in barren earth. He was there now, telling them to stay in the trench. And then at a word from an officer, telling them to leave it. He was the only one they heeded, yet so powerless. This is what they all had feared. Yes, and this is what he whispered to the boys so brave and hopeful. Some of them could hear him better than others. They would not lie. They would remain fifteen. There were so many who did not hear though. So many. He was with them all.

 

            But still there were some. The ones that had listened, the ones he had forgotten, to go where the fear was. They did not need to wait for any Christmas truce, all the more horrifying for its temporariness. They remained as safe as any. He remembered them now.

           

            Another night. An eyeblink later. The fear that felt like failure floating all around him like cloying incense. It was outside of him, not under his control. It was as if one of his nightmares had been captured and put to some unfathomably evil purpose. Yet what could he do but spread more fear? Leave this country, he whispered. Hide, he whispered.

 

            He found himself on boxcars. Jump, he whispered, or you will surely die. He found himself in places where his was not the thinnest shadow cast. And he could not stop whispering, though most ears he leaned to were joined to bodies far past the ability to do anything.

 

            And yet some had listened. He had just forgotten them.

 

            There were many nights such, and many memories (or dreams) of this kind.

 

            When he was awake, Pitch wandered through towns and cities, pondering what this could mean. He tapped on windows far from any tree branches. He ran his fingernails along outside walls. He showed spiders how to get into houses. As always, the moon loomed over him, silent.

 

            His…visions (for he still could not believe they were dreams) began to get smaller, more specific. He saw himself tell a little girl that the man in the car who wanted her to help him find a lost puppy was actually looking for a huge, vicious wolf that would tear out her insides. He told tales of river monsters that migrated in early winter to a pair of siblings whose parents had foolishly bought them new ice skates long before the river would freeze solid enough to walk on. He invented a ghastly devouring monster that only traveled along train tracks, and described it to the charming honors student with a new license. Over and over again, he repeated, “You cannot fly” to those who were already on the roof, with red beach towels and no permission. In the vision he found himself getting bored with that, so he started telling the would-be heroes that if they flew they might float up into space and get abducted by aliens. He described the effects of fantastic poisons in great detail to a little boy highly fascinated by Reese’s Cups who was always forgetting his epi-pen. To weak swimmers at beaches with strong undertows, he presented images of creatures of the deep that had never existed—living just at the limit of their safe depth.

 

            Unlike reality, in these visions they always heard him.

 

            After several weeks of such visions Pitch found himself feeling how he usually felt, which wasn’t good, but was at least familiar. He was able to send nightmares out to the spaces underneath beds and inside closets, and often went himself. He could barely even make a nightlight flicker when he passed in front of it, but there was enough fear of the dark—the unknown—not him, anyway—to keep him steady, if not thriving.

           

            This still wasn’t what he was supposed to be doing, but every day he grew more confident that there was something he was supposed to be doing. A place for him in the grand scheme. It was a good feeling. He didn’t trust it.

 

            Still the visions continued.

 

            Despite this, the first time Pitch awoke to find Sandman in his lair was quite a surprise. He had opened his eyes groggily, dimly becoming aware that he was not sending bear-shaped nightmares to rustle around a campsite where the food was improperly stored, but was instead in his own bed, lying on his stomach with one arm propping up his head through the thin pillow. And…there was something heavy pressing on his back. _What on earth?_ With difficulty, Pitch sighed, annoyed. It hadn’t happened for a while, but sometimes his nightmares would get restless and sit on his chest or back and stare at him while he slept. No matter how many times he told them that it was not HIM they were supposed to do that to…His thoughts were interrupted as his annoyed sigh was answered by a contented, sleepy one—a sound no nightmare had ever made. He also realized that the alcove holding his bed was being lit by a warm, golden light. That certainly wasn’t right. Any light that did get down to these depths was always cool and gray.

 

            So that left only one possibility. Pitch braced himself, then flipped over, tossing Sandman off his back and on to the floor, where he landed softly on his back before picking himself up, nodding at Pitch, and floating away to the surface, all before Pitch could properly respond to the situation.

           

            In his wanderings that night, he tried to work it out. “So, Sandman has been sending me dreams. Dreams about myself. Dreams about myself frightening people. Which has done wonders for my recovery, but that cannot be his goal. Even more incomprehensibly, he has apparently decided that my back is a comfortable place to rest. Of course, this will probably start to degrade my sleep no matter how many dreams he sends, since he seems remarkably dense for someone who flies everywhere.” Pitch rolled his shoulders and bent forward and back, trying to assess any damage that might have resulted from a night of being squished by that ridiculous glowworm.  

 

            Something was different, that much was obvious. His back and shoulders didn’t feel like they normally did, but they weren’t really hurting—that was it. That was what was different. The aches and tension knots of centuries were just…gone. In their place was all the energy he had spent trying to ignore the pain.

 

            “No.” Pitch said. “What is this?” he yelled to the sky, knowing that Sandman was probably nowhere near the strands of dreamsand interlacing the stars. “Some casual display of your power!?” He paced angrily in a small circle. “Maybe you didn’t mean to do this at all,” he muttered. “Of course you didn’t. You wouldn’t do this for me. I see it now. The Guardians sent you to keep an eye on me, but you can’t be a jailer, really. It’s not in your nature. I wonder how they’d feel if they knew you were making me stronger all the time. Could you explain, in sand, that you didn’t know this was going to happen? What will they make of this night?”

 

            It would be a long night, too. Pitch felt as though he could follow three am for days and days, as humans measured them. He called nightmare after nightmare from the shadows as he walked through the streets, reaching out with his mind to nearby sleepers, finding their fears, shaping nightmares for them. Everything felt easier now. Without much conscious thought, he let himself flow through the memories of those around him. He began to shape the nightmares not into the things the sleepers already feared, but to those things he knew they should fear—though not in their mundane forms. It was the first time he had done so in reality in a long while, but it was familiar to him from his recent dreams. It was…fun. And the nightmares returned with fear that felt better than much of that which they had been bringing him before.

 

            After a long, long night, Pitch was making what he had decided would be his last personal stop at a small, old house at the edge of a small, old, town. He liked these houses. Incorporeal as he remained, floorboards would still give off unexplainable cracks as he walked through, and the wiring was often weak enough for him to jostle, turning on a TV or making a nightlight flicker. It was quite early in the evening, he realized as he walked up the front steps. He must have gotten ahead of himself over the Atlantic Ocean.

 

            He had been attracted to this house because the girl who lived there had no clear idea of what she was afraid of. It was something specific, but she couldn’t name it. Pitch was hoping to tell her that it was him. However, it wasn’t quite bedtime yet. Her parents were getting ready to go out for the evening. Pitch smiled. He hoped the babysitter was the silly type who watched too many slasher movies. The house did have a supposedly disconnected land line. Maybe he could make it ring.

 

            “Now Kallie,” the mother said, “your uncle Joe’s going to be watching you this evening, remember?"

           

Pitch watched Kallie nod, her eyes wide. Could she tell he was here?

 

            “Why are you so quiet all of the sudden? I thought you liked uncle Joe. He gave you all those toys, buys you ice cream every time he has even half a chance…” She adjusted her hair in the reflection from the television.

 

            “Dunno,” said Kallie.

 

            “Oh well, be good for him tonight anyway. I think that’s his car pulling into the driveway. We’ll just leave the door unlocked, we’re going to be late if we wait even another minute…” The mother kissed the top of Kallie’s head and rushed out the door, the father in tow.

 

            Pitch frowned. It was uncle Joe in the driveway. Pitch sensed his fear, and it became clear what Kallie had to be afraid of, since it was crystal clear what Joe was afraid of. Joe was afraid of getting caught.

 

            Without knowing exactly why—perhaps if questioned on the spot Pitch would say that he had done this to prolong Kallie’s fear, as a fear realized is a fear lessened—Pitch decided that Joe would not be coming in the house. He went to the deadbolt and ordinary door lock that the parents had left undone, and just as Joe had his hand on the doorknob, he slid them both closed. It was astoundingly easy. _Why?_ There was no time to ponder that now, as he was distracted by a gratifying squeal from Kallie. Of course. The locks had moved with no one touching them.

 

            “Hey!” Joe shouted through the door. “Kallie, did you lock me out? Why? I thought we were friends!”

 

            Kallie ran upstairs to her room, turning every light in the house on as she did so. Pitch was impressed with her speed. She probably could even jump into bed out of arm’s reach—that is, if he didn’t bother lengthening his arms.

 

            “Is this because I told you you were a big girl, Kallie? ‘Cause I take it back if it is. You’re a little girl. My little girl! My perfect little girl!”

 

            Pitch heard Joe step away from the porch, and left the house for a moment to see what he was doing. He was headed toward a rather ugly monkey-shaped planter near the detached garage. _Spare key. Well that will never do._ Pitch rushed over and sat down smoothly on the planter. He let all the fear he had gathered through the night flow around him like an aura. There was no need to contain it within himself now, since he had quickly become quite confident that he would be able to get more during the next night.

 

            Joe couldn’t get within ten feet of him.

 

            Pitch watched the man shiver and sweat as he tried to approach the spare key. He began to be afraid of what Kallie’s parents would say when they got back. He could tell them she locked him out, but how could he explain that he had been too terrified to get the spare key? There was nothing there, but as soon as he got close he became so sure that some horrible, nameless fate awaited him if he took one more step.

 

            For about an hour, Joe kept trying to approach the planter, with no success. He then apparently gave up and went to sit on the porch and smoke cigarette after cigarette.

 

            “You have precancerous cells in your left lung right now!” Pitch called to him from across the driveway, not knowing if this was true or not. Joe took the current cigarette out of his mouth and looked at it for a moment, frowning, then carried on as before, with an expression of spite on his face.

 

            After another two hours, during which Pitch got very bored—Joe was really rather dull for all his loathsomeness and Kallie had such a bright and refreshing fear of ghosts that really just wanted a little reinforcement, yet seeing how he could not leave the planter—Kallie’s parents finally returned. Pitch watched Joe lie and say that he and Kallie had watched a movie and played Legos, and that after putting her to bed he had stepped outside for a quick smoke. As he went to his car, it was quite funny to see him approach the planter with trepidation and find there was no effect, now that Pitch wasn’t blocking his approach. Pitch followed the parents into the house—“Why are all the lights on?”—and up to Kallie’s room, entering her closet to go back to his lair, intending to slam the door as he did. Strangely, he found he could only make it creak. Well, he was quite tired now.

 

            As he lay down to rest he found he wasn’t afraid that the Guardians would come and punish him for his nightmare spree. He knew it might happen, but it didn’t worry him. He started to wonder why, but sleep overcame him with surprising quickness.


	2. Ten Thousand Years Younger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pitch feels the value of a good night's sleep.

As he slept, Pitch dreamed of cliffs, canyons, cataracts, deserts that go on for thousands of miles, and the deepness of the trenches of the ocean. He dreamed of stormy nights on desolate moors. He dreamed of Mont Blanc and the Rio Grande river gorge. He dreamed of lightning-legged clouds stalking red-rock hoodoos. He dreamed that he was a city dweller in a dark place understanding for the first time that the white smudge above him was not cloud or smog but billions of stars. He dreamed of all these things, and on the edge of his waking, he dreamed a word: sublime.

 

            His full waking is precipitated by a soft tickle on his chin. Even though it doesn’t make sense, Pitch isn’t surprised to see Sandman’s golden glow near him as he opens his eyes. Yet as he comes to full awareness, he is somewhat surprised as to where he finds Sandman. The Guardian has used his short stature to curl up within Pitch’s own half-curled shape. He is close to Pitch’s chest, facing him. His head is tucked down, and in this way his hair brushed against Pitch’s face. Most astonishingly, he has taken Pitch’s arm and draped it over his shoulders, like some extremely inadequate blanket.

 

            Sandman is sleeping peacefully, as he always can—even in the very arms of fear. _You are a very poor spy, Sandman_ , Pitch thinks, though as they are he barely dares breathe. How long, he wonders, knowing that his memory will tell him nothing, has it been since he touched someone solidly, in peace? A very, very long time.

 

            Sandman is very warm. He is probably the warmest thing in Pitch’s realm right now. Pitch has never really managed to shape his world into a comfortable temperature. The best he can manage is a dull cold: if he tries to make it any warmer the atmosphere becomes oppressively hot. He had thought he was used to it by now, but he really does not want to move his arm.

 

            Then he realizes that Sandman knows he is awake. All dreams are his, and Pitch has left his world. Sandman will know this even though he seems to be asleep. Even now he is connected to thousands of dreamers around the world. He can do his job in his sleep. Pitch lifts his arm from his shoulders and scoots away from Sandman until he can stand up without waking him.

 

            Now what? Can he just leave Sandman here? Pitch decides that is what he will do. One less Guardian to watch for in the night. He finds an underbed where it is night and passes through, taking a troop of nightmares with him.

 

            Out in the night, he feels glorious—ten thousand years younger. He also doesn’t feel as desperate to be seen, which he thinks must be in part due to the success of his previous nights’ wanderings (he doesn’t notice he is clasping his arm as he thinks this). As before, he finds that he can get more than enough of the fear he needs if he tells tales to sleepers that join what they should fear to what they do fear—with a more or less weighty touch of the fantastic. He reshapes his nightmares with ease into astounding new shapes, and it seems that the black sand is infinite. He finds he can sense the minds of dreamers across an entire continent, and those waking for hundreds of miles. He wanders in three am for a long time. More than once, he finds reason to darken a streetlight, or push over some precariously balanced items, or cast his shadow on a wall—and that is seen, somehow—all in the name of frightening people, but each time he does so, he knows he is also averting a real encounter that would lead to a fulfillment of fears. Yes, those middle schoolers walking home from the movie should be afraid of the slightly older mugger in the alley, but Pitch likes it better if they hurry past because they think the Jersey Devil was there. The fear of the latter belongs to him completely, fantastic as it is.

 

            As Pitch walks through closet door and underbed, he finds himself gazing at Sandman’s work shimmering over the heads of the sleepers. Sandman doesn’t always control the final form of the dream, he remembers—somehow. His sand usually works with the potential it finds in the person’s mind. Still, there are certain things either humanity or Sandman really likes, and soon enough Pitch is watching someone dream of flying over the Rocky Mountains. Yet somehow it seems flat to him, as if the dreamer is watching the mountains from a helicopter. Maybe they saw this view at a museum’s IMAX movie. _That’s not really a flying dream_ , Pitch thinks. _What is flying without the fear of falling?_ And so—it is even easier than he expects it to be—Pitch adds just a few grains of black sand to the golden flyer. One, the cold wind. Two, the sharp points of the peaks and stones. Three, the vast space between flesh and anything else. Four, the sense that the dreamer’s flight is entirely reliant upon the dreamer’s own power. He need not take the whole dream—the contrast appeals to him somehow.

 

            He touches many dreams like this.


	3. Comic Books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're so vain, you probably think this comic is about you.

When he returns to his lair, Sandman isn’t there, though a faint glimmer of dreamsand remains. Pitch shakes his head. He thought he would be here to say something about the touches of fear he was putting into his dreams.

           

            Pitch formed a broom out of black sand and started to sweep up the dreamsand—or, rather, turn it into black sand. Really, having glowing golden glitter all around his bed was bad for appearances, even though he—and now Sandman, for whatever reason—were the only ones who saw it. Of course, when he was finished, there was still sand everywhere. It irked him. He looked around into the vast shadowy spaces of his realm and found it no better. The Escher-esque staircases and the cages were all right, but it seemed too uniform. Rather dingy too. It was simply not…impressive. Where were the surprises? What good was an ever-changing labyrinth if all the corridors were the same? It was too easy to get used to. “What was I thinking?” Pitch muttered to himself. “But maybe it was the best I could do with the little power I had.” He smiled. “But not any more, thanks to that unwitting Sandman. I’m better than ever now.” He knelt to the floor and spread his hands out on the gritty surface, reaching within himself to the place from which he was able to shape his nightmares. His smile grew wider as he watched the dull stone change under his fingertips. Soon, the chamber floor was replaced with glassy smooth obsidian, tilted at a very slight angle that made it difficult (for those who were not Pitch) to keep from sliding towards a pile of brick that Pitch had decided would be replaced with a dais and throne. And this was only the beginning. He felt as though he had thousands upon thousands of ideas for reshaping his realm, and what’s more, he was looking forward to it. Had he ever felt like this before? He thought a half-hearted curse at his memory before sliding down the floor to begin working on the dais.

 

            After making the throne and working on several other spaces, including an alcove of needles that he thought particularly stylish, he was crossing the throne room and thinking of returning to the surface to go on his rounds, when much to his surprise he found Sandman sitting on the nightmare throne. And not only sitting on it, but making himself quite comfortable. He rested his head on one armrest and his feet on the other, and was reading a stack of battered comic books—several of which rested on a side table made of dreamsand that he had set up next to the throne, making it look much less intimidating.

 

            “Hey!” Pitch called to him. “What are you doing here?” Sandman merely waved at him and held up his comic. “Yes, I can see you’re reading.” Pitch approached, intending to at least try and throw Sandman out, though even with his renewed strength he knew that was most likely impossible. He happened to glance at the cover of the Sandman’s book however, and was stopped short by the image of a thin, pale man dressed in a flowing black garment with wild dark hair. He bent down, tilting his head to see better. “Who’s that on your book? Is that me?” Sandman shook his head and laughed silently, then pointed to himself. “Don’t be ridiculous, I’ve never seen anyone who looks less like you.” Sandman shrugged and went back to reading.

 

            Pitch hesitated. There was more work to be done on the surface—important work, he was starting to think—but he couldn’t remember the last time he had actually sat down to read anything. If only he knew how to work at a distance, like Sandman, then—was he really considering staying in and reading comics with his most powerful enemy? _Well, it wouldn’t be any stranger than cuddling up in bed with him, now would it?_

 

            Pitch shook his head. “I’m leaving now. If you’d like to try and stop me, could you do so in one of the parts I haven’t recreated yet?” Sandman just waved him on.

 

            Exasperated, Pitch left for the surface. What was Sandman’s game, anyway? Really, he couldn’t be spying or guarding Pitch, because well, here he was, telling children about giant squids in their swimming pools (and actually managing to make the water splash suspiciously if the child couldn’t swim) and sending personalized nightmares off to thousands of sleepers at a time. He was subtly twisting dreams, and finding out that he could do what Sandman did sometimes, and let the black sand work on its own, bringing to life the sleeper’s fears without his intervention. The fear wasn’t always as high-quality from this, but he could reach far more people doing so. Perhaps soon he would be able to work at a distance. Maybe he would just ask Sandman to teach him how.

            “…and they all would have died, mangled and smashed on the tracks, brains and blood smeared throughout her beautiful new car, had not the ghostly hands of those who had died at the crossing before pushed the vehicle out of the way. She could feel the rattle of the freight cars behind her like an earthquake as she sat shivering behind the steering wheel. Too bad,” Pitch concluded, “that there are no such things as ghosts.” At least, not tonight. He smiled at the teenager he had just finished telling the story to. In her memory he had seen that she had actually driven around a lowered train gate to avoid being marked late for school. Hopefully this would stop that nonsense. He was pretty sure she had heard him too, given the troubled expression on her face.

 

            That was enough for this night. He slipped under her bed and back to his realm. Immediately he rushed to the throne room, to see if Sandman was still there. He wasn’t, though he had left his table and his comics, the latter strewn about the throne. “Really, Sandman, you have an entire world of your own and yet you are leaving your possessions in mine…how did you get these, anyway?” He placed his hand on the golden table supported by whimsical curlicue legs and changed it into a chunk of rough black marble. Maybe it would be convenient to have something like this by the throne.

 

            It was not convenient, however, to have to pick up all the comic books. There were dozens of them. Pitch found himself lingering on the covers and putting them in numerical order. He found them all…all except for number one. “Sandman, are you trying deliberately to annoy me? I’m so disappointed. That’s something I would have expected of Jack Frost, or maybe Bunny. And just for that I shall hide these where you cannot get at them without my noticing.” He stalked off to his sleeping area, stopping short when he saw his bed. Resting on the pillow, like a carefully placed present, was the first comic. “Another inexplicable move on your part, Sandman. But not so rude as I had thought.”

 

            “So,” he said, settling down with his elbows on the pillow and opening the first comic, “let’s see just how much narcissism was behind this particular choice of reading material.”

 

            When Sandman returned to Pitch’s lair, he found him asleep at the beginning of issue 10. He smiled and removed the finished comics from the bed, placing them in a neat pile on the floor next to the unread ones. Ten he removed from under Pitch’s head, knowing he wouldn’t wake up unless he wanted him to. What next? He placed the thin pillow under Pitch’s head, shaking his own. Why not have a nice fluffy one? And why were there no blankets anywhere? For that matter, why not have a wider bed? But then, if there were no blankets it was as good a reason as any…Sandman smiled, waved some dreamsand in swooping arches above Pitch, and curled up next to him, without the space of the previous time. After all, Pitch had left his arm around him for a few moments then, so surely this would be all right.

 

            Pitch dreamt of roller coasters. When he woke up he did so slowly, glancing down at the warm little body pressed to his side without questioning it. “He’s nothing like you,” he muttered, before nodding off for a few more minutes. Then, his eyes snapped open. “Wait, what?” He sat up suddenly, waking Sandman in the process. “So you are here. And not just here, in my lair, but…right next to me. I thought it was a dream, but with you, that really wouldn’t make this any more explicable. What are you doing here? Why are you acting like…like some sort of cat? Do you not care that not so long ago I devoted my best efforts toward killing you?”

 

            Sandman shook his head. And then, in Pitch’s mind, like the memory of a memory of a voice, he heard, <Never could kill me>. Pitch’s jaw dropped. Had Sandman actually spoken? “Was that you? In my head?” Sandman nodded. “Have you always…do the other Guardians…but I did kill you, for a little while, didn’t I?”

 

            Sandman shook his head again. <Your dream. For you.>

 

            “You have got to be kidding me.” Pitch got up and began to pace. “Are you saying that you allowed yourself to appear to become corrupted with nightmare sand and die because that was my dream at the time and you wanted to make it come true? That’s mad!”

 

            <Worked out in the end.>

 

            Pitch snorted. “For the Guardians, yes, it did, didn’t it?” Sandman only rolled his eyes and jumped down from the bed. He looked through the stack of comics until he found the place he had left off and walked off to the throne room. Pitch followed close behind, carrying the rest of the comics.

 

            Sandman was sitting in a dreamsand easy chair next to the throne as Pitch walked in. “You still haven’t answered all my questions.” Sandman held his finger to his lips and held up the book. “Fine. We sit and read. But I’m only doing so until you’re in a more talkative mood.”

           

            As Pitch read, he made comments about the characters and stories to Sandman. He assumed he was doing so in order to annoy him into conversation, but he couldn’t deny that it was sort of nice to have another being around. When was the last time he had talked to someone who could hear him, hadn’t been created by him, and didn’t seem ready to try and beat him into a pulp? He couldn’t remember, of course, but that just meant it had been too long.

 

            “This fellow with the eye-mouths,” he noted, tapping at a page, “I’ve seen him before. Several times, actually, when I just let the black sand work with the sleepers’ minds. I think I’m glad to find out that this man Neil invented him, because I would have hated to find out that he was one of mine that I’d forgotten.”

           

            When he finished the last comic, he was about to ask Sandman if there were any more when he realized that, first of all, he had vanished—leaving his armchair behind—and second of all, that he had been severely neglecting his duties for the duration of his reading binge. He left hurriedly through the nearest underbed, muttering to himself. “Is this the plan then? Not spying on me or stopping me, but _distracting_ me from what, if I may say so myself, is perhaps more effective in actually guarding children than any of your duties? Though that still does not explain the…odd sleeping arrangements. You will answer my questions, Sandman—just as soon as I have a moment to spare.”

 

            It did not surprise Pitch that when he returned, Sandman was sitting in his chair, reading a book. He walked over silently. “ _The Lathe of Heaven_ ,” Pitch read the cover aloud, causing Sandman to jump. “Yes, I’m back now. Did you know, the nearer the miss, the more fear there is for me? Of course I can only cut things that fine if I’m physically present. And, then again, it takes a bit of work for the near miss to be interpreted as something amenable to my tastes—the best one tonight was the young actor who delayed going onstage for fear of the theater ghost, which allowed the very heavy and poorly balanced set to topple without maiming him. I think at some point he may have heard my physical voice.” At this point Sandman had refolded the dog-ear of the page he was on and was watching Pitch with a puzzled expression on his face. “So why did I return? Well,” he leaned down until his face was inches away from Sandman’s, “I seem to be having an _intruder_ problem I need to deal with.” Sandman rolled his eyes. Justifiably, Pitch thought. He wasn’t going to try to get Sandman to leave—but he had hoped it wouldn’t be quite so obvious. But then, someone used to communicating mostly with body language would obviously be adept in reading it.

 

            “All right, Sandman—” <Sandy>. Pitch stood up, backing away and beginning to pace. “Um. If you say so. All right then, Sandy, I came back because even with the strength and fear I’ve gathered on recent nights, I still can’t do any part of…what I do…without being on the surface. I think I’m strong enough to do all my work with fear from here, with the aid of my nightmares, but I’m not sure how. And…well this sounds daft now, doesn’t it? I want you to teach me how to do that. Yes, please Mr. Guardian, teach me how to spread fear more efficiently. You’ve probably got the golden chains already.” Pitch glanced back at Sandy, who gave his head just the slightest shake, but shaped no other signs. Instead, he continued to stare at Pitch intently.

 

            “Well that’s reassuring—baffling, but reassuring. It’s just…I don’t feel like I’m using the fear just to survive anymore. There’s a bigger purpose to what I do. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I still enjoy all—no” Pitch paused in surprise. “Most fear. But it’s best when it keeps them safe. And not only that, but when it keeps them from realizing a real danger. I think…I think I want them to believe in me and my nightmares because I know we won’t actually hurt them.” Pitch glanced back up at Sandy, who gave a small nod. “At least I can hold a reasonable hope that you won’t gossip about this,” Pitch continued, “I do have a reputation to maintain. But this…purpose I feel I have—it’s clear that I’ve neglected it of late, but I feel I used to do my work the way I was supposed to—if this is what I’m supposed to do. Is that right?” Sandy nodded again.

 

            “All right, but then why was I so weak for…so long? I can’t even remember how long I was aimlessly lurking under beds, filled with impotent rage, barely knowing what I could do, let alone what I should do, invisible, incorporeal. My memory is nothing but fog save for very recently. Did I do those things you showed me in those first dreams? Anyway, whether or not it was your intention, I believe your…proximity…helped heal me from the recent battle. And much more. Physically, it was obvious. Mentally, the change was more subtle.” Pitch smiled slightly. “Or perhaps more drastic, but more difficult for me to notice. Regardless of how hindsight changes my views, or how diffident I have just appeared, I have always maintained a foolish and persistent confidence in whatever frame of mind I happen to be in. Yet if I am not mad now I do believe I was mad during our most recent battle. But why was I mad? And why have you helped me? Did you mean to? Oh, and this isn’t even related to my first question any more, and you’re probably not going to answer—” As Pitch turned around he was surprised to see that Sandy had floated very near to him, holding his hands behind his back.

 

            “Hey, what are you—” Sandy flung a handful of dreamsand in Pitch’s face and quickly flew around behind him to catch him as he fell down into an irresistible sleep. “That’s not fair,” Pitch said, yawning, as his eyelids closed and he leaned into Sandy’s shoulder. Sandy smiled and shook his head before hoisting Pitch off to bed. He would understand when he woke up. Controlling dreamsand—or nightmaresand—from afar was something best explained in dreams. As for the other questions—Sandy’s expression became troubled, even guilty, for a moment before clearing. There would be time to explain later. There was always time, for beings such as they.

 

            When Pitch woke up, he realized that he knew how to find the right kind of fear and send the right kind of nightmares while staying underground. He also realized that Sandy had abandoned his armchair in favor of leaning against Pitch’s stomach as he was curled up. “Sandman…Sandy…what are you doing? I can’t be comfortable.” Sandy smiled at him. Above his head appeared a tiny image of himself and Pitch. Little strands of sand emerged from the image-Sandy’s head, and then from the image-Pitch’s head. “So you stuck around so that you could…help me practice with nightmares-at-a-distance?” Sandy nodded, folded over the corner of the page he was on, closed his book, and eased off Pitch’s bed as if he couldn’t fly. _That’s sort of cute_ , Pitch found himself thinking, before sighing, exasperated at himself. Of course it was cute. Cuteness was practically a reflex with Sandy. He shook his head, smoothed back his hair, and followed him over to the throne room.

 

            “What’s the book today, Sandy?” He tossed it back to him. “ _American Gods_. You know, after learning how to do the nightmares from here, I think I might like having time to read. I don’t remember how long it’s been since I was able to take an interest in books.”

 

            <Not just after. During. Learn to work with distractions.>

 

            “Well, you’re quite chatty today. All right then. You want me to read this, or since you’re in the middle of it…?” Sandy flew over to his armchair to retrieve _The Lathe of Heaven_ and back to press it into Pitch’s hands.

 

            <Sand first though. Easy if no walls in your mind.>

 

            “Yes, and the secret to creating the Philosopher’s Stone is to not think about a rhinoceros as you stir the cauldron.”


	4. If Pitch Had Read Freud This Work Would Be Shorter; or, Halloween

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a lot of books are read, movies are watched, Pitch is oblivious and Sandy gets scared.

Nevertheless, despite Pitch's initial misgivings, with Sandy’s help he made rapid progress in doing his fear-work from afar.

 

            It was exhilarating, like finding a new talent and remembering an old skill simultaneously. And all the while he was reading the books Sandy brought him like a drowning person gasps for air.

 

            _The Lathe of Heaven_

_American Gods_

_Abarat_

_The Hungry City Chronicles_

_Hardboiled Wonderland and the End of the World_

_House of Leaves_

_Invisible Cities_

_Life of Pi_

_Living Next-Door to the God of Love_

_Coraline_

_Only Revolutions_

_Hypneratomachia Poliphili_ (“Sandy, what _is_ this?”)

            _Frankenstein_

_At the Mountains of Madness_

The _Nightside_ books (“ ‘…was on the side of good. Good didn’t have much say in the matter.’ Well that’s all right, but why does this man have to use the word ‘appalling’ so much? And really, if he’s not going to define the ‘worse things’ that the cars run on and yet insist on mentioning it, I may take it upon myself to make sure he’s not just saying that to cover a lack of ideas.”)

            _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ and _Through the Looking Glass_

_The Man Who Was Thursday_

_The Castle of Otranto_

_Darkangel_

_The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath_ (“Sandy…do you think maybe you could bring me…all of Lovecraft?”)

            _Little, Big_

            A Poe omnibus

            …and dozens of others.

 

            Pitch created a library in his lair to hold all the books, because either Sandy was giving them to him permanently or he couldn’t be bothered to take them back to Dreamland, and frankly most of them had covers too shiny or colorful to leave lying around. The smoked glass of locked ebony bookcases helped somewhat, but the paperbacks still looked ridiculous. With a thought he rebound them all in black leather. When Sandy found them, he made a lot of angry little frowns at Pitch, but settled on embossing the titles on the rebound books with suitably spidery gold letters.

 

            “There’s no reason to get upset you know,” Pitch had said to him as he did so. “I don’t think these are real copies of the books. In any case, you should be glad that I haven’t changed your armchair to something more suitable.”

 

            Sandy looked at him skeptically, an image of Pitch’s throne appearing above his head and shifting into something much more plush. With an ottoman.

 

            “I’m not going to do that. No one has nightmares about comfortable furniture. Perhaps I wouldn’t even be able to change my throne into such a thing.” He smiled as he said it, knowing it wasn’t true. He could do almost anything with the nightmare sand now. Maybe even make someone have nightmares about ordinary sofas. But that really would be pointless, and not nearly as amusing as one of his recent brief trips to the surface, during which he had expended a lot of effort into putting buttons into the contact lens case of a girl who had fallen asleep with hers still in. The difficulty he had made it clear that he was pushing the limits of what he was supposed to be doing, but it was fun. And as a creator of nightmares, he wasn’t exactly going to let boundaries sit still, was he?

 

            Sandy rolled his eyes and walked off sideways into nothingness. Pitch felt his robe flutter with the warm breeze of Dreamland and for an insane moment wondered if he could ever follow Sandy when he did that. Of course he couldn’t. It might even kill him if he did. _Which doesn’t explain why Sandy can spend so much time here_. Pitch decided to be self-contradictory and ignore that boundary-questioning. As he and Sandy had been working with their nightmares and dreams, reading and talking—sort of—about books, Pitch had realized that he needed to create a few boundaries. He didn’t know why Sandy kept visiting him, or helping him, but he didn’t want to give him a reason to not come back.

 

            While Sandy was gone, Pitch decided that he was going to try and create an accurate Elder Thing. It probably wasn’t useful, but it was good practice in drawing out distant fears—not that Lovecraft could tell him if he had done so successfully, but Sandy could judge. His memory was much better and he had more access to thoughts than Pitch ever did, and he had been familiar with Lovecraft. He would know.

 

            Pitch was puzzling over the description of the Thing’s wings, holding a handful of black sand and kneeling on the book to hold it open when Sandy returned, holding another book. He held up the cover for Pitch to read, to answer his inevitable question. “ _The Curious Sofa_. Sandy, even if that disproves my point, I’m still not changing the throne. I like the spikes.” Sandy winked at him and settled into his armchair.

 

            As he continued to work on the Thing, Pitch realized he was both running around it in circles a great deal and catching his robe on the various wings and appendages it was supposed to have. “Bloody radial symmetry,” he muttered. Sandy glanced up from his book, which he was dawdling though, just in time to see Pitch throw off his robe and begin to work again wearing only his leggings and the soft shoes they faded into.

 

            Pitch refined the Thing a bit more, now casting sand with one hand and holding the book in the other. Except for the color, every detail was right, but he couldn’t help but feel a sense of dissatisfaction. “Sandy, tell me honestly, what do you think of this? Unless I’m seriously missing something, this _is_ an Elder Thing, but as-is, it just doesn’t seem very scary. It’s bizarre, that’s for sure, but maybe too bizarre. If one encountered this thing made out of some neutral material, one would have no idea whether it was going to attack, dispense snack cakes, or speak prophecy. Maybe if I actually had it move…but then how are these wings supposed to work?” He glanced over at Sandy, who was looking back at him, resting his head on his hand. Yet he didn’t look like he was paying attention to Pitch. That is, the sand-images above his head apparently had nothing to do with the Elder Thing. One of the things Pitch had noticed as he had spent a lot of time reading with Sandy was that sometimes his train of thought would appear above his head if he was particularly absorbed in something. Today “train of thought” was a particularly apt metaphor, as a golden locomotive passed into a mountain tunnel above Sandy’s sparkling hair.

 

            “Hello? San-dy? Is your book about trains now? I thought it was about a sofa.”

 

            Sandy startled and blinked before waving his hands frantically above his head to clear the images. _You’ve never done that before_ , thought Pitch.

 

<Looks good,> Sandy said, finally focusing on Pitch.

 

            “Oh come on, you didn’t even look at it. It isn’t scary, is it? But is it accurate? I should have made a shoggoth instead. I wouldn’t have wasted all this time—”

 

            <Accurate,> Sandy interrupted, <but Lovecraft fears…unique.>

 

            “In that case I’m not sending this thing out at all. Maybe someone needs to be afraid of starfish, but I’m sure there are higher priorities.” He placed his hands on the Thing’s sides, closed his eyes, and took one deep breath in and let it out as he changed it into a literal night-mare. He smiled. Now here was something that never failed. The fierce, elegant black horse looked at him with intelligent golden eyes, waiting for his instructions. Or just his voice. They were so loyal, even when he doubted them—like at the end of the last battle. Even when he wasn’t sure that they would terrify, as he grew used to them and couldn’t see them as anything other than beautiful. Who wouldn’t want a nightmare like this? He stroked her mane and whispered in her ear: “You shall be Hematite, after one who fell in battle. Go and give a wild ride to someone who is too fond of staying indoors.”

 

            The nightmare gave a whinnying scream and leaped upward into nothingness. A few drops of rain from the surface fell onto Pitch’s face and chest and he realized that he had neglected to put his robe back on. He looked around, but it seemed to have vanished into the floor.

 

            “Sandy, have you seen my robe?” Sandy composed his face into its most innocent expression and shrugged. “Hmmm, maybe clothing just vanishes around you. I’ve seen enough people with no pants trying to remember their high school locker combinations to make that a distinct possibility. No matter.” Pitch called up more nightmare sand and recreated his robe. “I’m going to get some rest while waiting for my nightmares to get back from their duties. You might as well go to the surface or Dreamland, because it’s going to be boring around here for a while, and if you make anything else out of dreamsand in my lair, I shall be very cross with you.”

 

            Sandy nodded, which seemed to Pitch a highly incomplete response. He didn’t wait for any further one though, and moved off to the alcove that held his bed.

           

            Sandy did not go back to Dreamland, and wondered why Pitch assumed he would. Well, he hadn’t answered his question about his intention in helping him, but shouldn’t the answer to that be obvious by now? Before entering Pitch’s line of sight he sent out the dreamsand that would keep him asleep. Now, what would be good tonight? Animals, Sandy decided, shaping beautiful sharks, hawks, lions, copperheads, crocodiles, wild boars and many others to proudly move through vast wild landscapes. That done, he moved Pitch’s free arm around his shoulders, curled up to his chest, and drifted off to sleep himself. All he needed to do was make sure he woke up before Pitch and he could delay answering the questions he didn’t want to answer yet. Anyway, by waking up earlier he could set up something that would annoy Pitch without him jabbering about it the whole time.

 

            Pitch awoke so smoothly that it was actually rather a surprise to him that Sandy wasn’t there with him. _Maybe I don’t need him anymore_. With that thought came the impulse to hide such a fact from Sandy, and a wondering why that impulse had made itself felt. As he walked through his lair, though, Pitch began to hear noises that indicated that Sandy had not actually left. Music, of all things, echoed through a rough, dim passage, with a faint gold glow at the end. Pitch pressed his lips together and hurried toward the light and sound. As he got closer, he could pick out the lyrics: “…everybody loves a good scare!/ That’s our job, but we’re not mean/ In our town of Halloween…”

 

            “SANDY!” Pitch stared in dismay at the small, plushly furnished movie theater that was now filling one of his oubliettes. Sandy looked away from the screen to smile at Pitch, floating closer and creating an image of a film projector that was very large in comparison to a tiny sand book. <For distraction. Practice.>

 

            “Sandy, I don’t care if films will help me practice working with distractions! This is my realm, not some outpost of Dreamland!” He let out an angry breath. “Do you understand that even after finding that I can do something in the world that both strengthens me and doesn’t bring the wrath of the Guardians down on my head, it’s still a crapshoot as to whether I’ll actually be able to physically touch objects? This place, my nightmare realm, is the only place where I can be sure what I touch will be solid to me. And now, with you remaking whole rooms with dreamsand—I still get nervous when I add a few grains of black sand to your dreams.” He looked away from Sandy, who looked troubled. “If you decided to remake the nightmare realm in dreamsand, I couldn’t stop you. I’ve never been able to stop you from doing anything. But then…then I wouldn’t have even this dark corner to call home.

 

            “I don’t expect you to respond in words. But I’m going to go to the surface now, and when I return I’ll come back to this room to see your answer.” He turned around and walked back down the passage, leaving through the nearest night underbed.

 

            Sandy closed his eyes and shook his head. This was not how he had intended the discovery of his theater to go at all. He had thought Pitch would have put on a show of not liking it and come around quickly enough. He hadn’t been thinking. Of course Pitch’s relation to the real world meant that he needed a world of his own. Reaching out his hands, he dissolved the theater seats, curtains, wall lights, and everything else until the bare and jagged walls were visible once more. He changed the screen into a large television and left a small note lying on it. He would go to the surface now too, following after Pitch. After their scene, his old desperation to be seen, to be real, would no doubt be surfacing again. There would be many dreams to repair, and he wanted to know when Pitch returned—he would be much weakened after such efforts, and need his own restoration.

 

            When Pitch returned to his lair, he felt dead on his feet. A feeling of dread crept over him as he walked toward the oubliette theater. What if Sandy had just left it the way it was? It would feel like more of a defeat than any of the others. A sign of Pitch’s utter insignificance, of his status as a mere plaything of beings like Sandy, even when it had seemed they were beginning to be equals.

 

            He had never been so happy to see rough rock walls in all his life. The television was ambiguous though. Was it a taunt? Sandy playing indulgent parent to the Boogeyman’s tantrums? Wait—there it was, gold on gold, almost invisible, a note. He hurried over to read it.

 

            _These new TVs are usually black, but I can’t do that. Still think films good for distraction practice. –Sandy_

 

            All right then. Pitch reached out to touch the golden television, changing it to smooth black. It almost looked real. Now…what kind of theater would be undeniably his? His theater…where Sandy and he could watch movies together. He paused for a moment, thoughtful. _I think…unsettling contrast with the hallway will work_.

 

            Sandy entered Pitch’s lair at the beginning of the passage leading to the former theater, expecting to sprint down it to see how Pitch had reacted. Instead, he was stopped short by the fact that the passage was filled with fallen chunks of rock, randomly jutting out pieces of rusted iron, and on the whole looked like it was about to collapse at any second. Did this mean that Pitch was still angry? Sandy floated through the masonry and metal till he arrived at the entrance to the old oubliette. A door had been placed there, to all appearances something salvaged from an abandoned tuberculosis hospital.

 

            Tentatively, he pushed the door open. To his surprise, it swung open easily. To his even greater surprise, the appearance of the old oubliette had been transformed into a room with apparently no relation to the disturbing decay of the hall. As he had hoped, Pitch had turned the gold TV to black. As for the rest of the room—the floor was covered in thick, plush black carpet, the walls were draped with heavy black curtains, and the only pieces of furniture were a large black trunk off in the corner and a very large, fluffy, and soft black pillow, that must have been ten by ten feet, and at least four feet high if no one was sitting on it.

 

            Naturally, someone was sitting—or rather, lying—on it at this time. Pitch sprawled on it, arms out, staring at the ceiling, which was coated with the bluest nightmare sand he could manage. “I can tell you’re here, Sandy.”

 

            Sandy floated into view. “I put that trunk there so that I could store all the movies you’re no doubt going to leave here. Also I have no idea how a DVD player works, so there’s a small empty box I have imagined to be a DVD player attached with something sort of wire-like to the TV. I think that will work but I’m really too tired to try anything. I…hope you like the pillow. Also I’m pretty sure you were following me tonight and I’m not sorry for anything I did. Not that I managed to do anything.”

 

            <Perfect.> Sandy said, smiling down at Pitch. He floated down to settle on the pillow beside the exhausted lord of nightmares, his smile growing slightly wider as he noticed that the pillow, being a pillow, tended to push him and Pitch together. Before Pitch could say anything, Sandy snuggled into his side and tossed a handful of dreamsand up towards Pitch’s head.

 

            Much to Sandy’s annoyance, after that one night, Pitch moved back to his awful narrow bed with the flat pillows. Sandy knew he could just send him to sleep during the movies they watched, but he wanted Pitch to see the ends. And then Pitch had mentioned that he liked to go to the surface afterwards to check on his progress in working with distractions and honestly Sandy knew he did a lot of good up there now so he couldn’t just keep him underground for weeks at a time—but that horrible bed!

 

            Pitch caught him frowning at it one morning, and said, quite reasonably, “Why don’t you leave after setting me up with a dream? After all, haven’t you been showing me for weeks that it’s possible to be thousands of miles away from a sleeper and still affect their dreams?”

 

            Sandy was glad he could get away with not talking then.

 

            And really, the bed could mostly be ignored, as Sandy took the time they spent watching movies as a golden opportunity to generally lean all over Pitch—blaming the pillow, naturally. He wondered if Pitch had made it so large with the intention that they could sit on the ends with space to themselves. Oh well. He wasn’t going to try to be too distracting through _Paprika, Labyrinth, Mirrormask, Ink, The Dark Crystal, Inception, Dark City, Fantasia, Being John Malkovich, Gothic, Mulholland Drive, The Fall,_ or any of the dozens of movies they watched.

 

            On the surface, the year slowly turned. The heat of summer cooled into autumn in the northern hemisphere, and in his excursions to the surface Pitch began to feel something unfamiliar. It was almost like a tingle of electricity in his skin, making him feel more alive than he could ever remember feeling. Even after being around Sandy so much, which had done wonders for him, this was a whole new level of exhilaration and power. He found himself grinning at odd moments. He recreated acres and acres of his lair, the boundaries of which seemed to extend every day. He even began to think it might one day be infinite like Dreamland. He created nightmares to fill it, not knowing who they were for. It didn’t matter. He felt no need to ration his power.

 

            Sandy, who had left the lair for a while, came back at the end of one of Pitch’s creating sprees. He raised his eyebrows at the baby-faced centipede that scuttled away from Pitch’s hands, then at Pitch, who gazed after it as fondly as if it had been a real baby.

 

            Pitch saw the golden glow out of the corner of his eye and turned to greet his guest. “Sandy! I have more questions to ask you. Oh, don’t worry about Babylegs. It’s gone to live in the outer reaches. Now, this time, don’t try to get out of answering. You owe me for _Ink_ , which was very painful to watch. The thing is, Sandy, I have been feeling _fantastic_ lately. Moreso, even, than I think your dreams can make me feel. Do you have any idea why? And, well, how long can I expect it to last?” His face turned serious for a moment. “Because something like this never could last for me.”

 

            A little calendar appeared above Sandy’s head, flipping to October. A little gold circle appeared over the 25th, and a much larger one appeared over the 31st. Dreamsand jack-o-lanterns, candy, and children dressing as ghosts then replaced the calendar.

 

            “Of course! Halloween. I hadn’t been paying attention. I remember from…before…that that was the one night of the year I didn’t feel like I was struggling just to stay alive. But it never felt like this!”

 

            <Doing your job now.> Sandy beckoned him toward the globe, covered with glowing pinpoints of believers. It was brighter than ever. <No time to explain before. This globe only yours. Shows belief in you, not any of the rest of us.>

 

            “What? But then…in the battle…but there were plenty of lights…no, Sandy, you must be mistaken. I’m still never seen.”

 

            Sandy shrugged. <True. But for Halloween they’re waiting for you. Like North on Christmas.>

 

            “And Bunny on Easter, and Tooth when they lose a tooth, and Jack when the snow starts falling, and…you when they fall asleep?”

 

            Sandy nodded.

 

            “So basically you feel the way I’m feeling right now, all the time.” Pitch laughed bitterly. “No wonder you weren’t concerned about me killing you. Oh, but I can’t brood, not even a little bit, right now. Halloween! I think I’m going to spend all week on the surface. And Sandy—thank you. Even though the information you gave me is quite troubling. I’ll…see you after Halloween?”

 

            Sandy nodded, looking a little sad. With the increased power given by the boost in belief at this time of year, Pitch might not need to sleep for quite some time. And frankly there was no real reason for him to stick around and read and watch movies at this point. All he could do was hope that it would take a while for Pitch to realize this before asking him to leave or explain himself, both equally unappealing options with what he feared would be the same results.

 

            Pitch noticed that Sandy hadn’t vanished into Dreamland yet. Could it be that Sandy would miss him over Halloween? A stray thought tried to bloom in Pitch’s mind, but he quickly squashed it. There were certain things that Pitch knew would have Sandy never returning or speaking to him again, regardless of his failure to understand personal space. But that didn’t mean that Sandy had to go off on his own right now.

 

            “Sandy,” Pitch said, “have you ever left the lair without going through Dreamland first?” Sandy shook his head. Even the first time Pitch caught him in his lair, he had floated up and into Dreamland rather than trying to find another way out. “Well, I don’t know if you’d want to join me, but if you do, it really is quite exhilarating, at least the way I think would be right for the week before Halloween.”

 

            Sandy nodded eagerly, though he wasn’t sure what Pitch was referring to. “Great!” Pitch grinned wildly. He had never gotten to share this with someone he thought might enjoy it. “Hematite! Ebony! Noir! Umbra! Jet! Sable! Sloe! Tenebrae! Murk! Atrament! Obscurity! Caliginosity! Gloaming!” Thirteen night mares stampeded into the throne room, crowding about Pitch to nuzzle him. “Yes,” he murmured to them. “You’re going to be part of something very special this year.” He moved among them, patting noses, stroking manes, and whispering in ears. Sandy smiled from his safe perch on top of the globe, but thinking back to the last battle, his smile faded. It was obvious that to Pitch, all the night mares were individuals. And though in his madness he had sent them against the Guardians with no regard for their safety, the Guardians had never considered them as anything more than temporary constructs. He himself had never treated anything he made out of dreamsand this way—but then again he had never been as lonely as Pitch.

 

            The night mares began to organize themselves into rough rows. Pitch seated himself easily on the single mare in the front. “Sandy, come down from there! Tenebrae is going to carry us. Here, sit behind me. Hold on to my waist, and don’t be shy all of the sudden. You’re going to have to hang on tight.” Pitch summoned a small amount of nightmare sand. “And now, just to dress things up a bit.” With a few moves of his hands, a glittering, black, antler-like crown appeared, balanced on his long fingers. He placed it on his head.

 

            Sandy suddenly thought _Oh, I remember this_ , and had just enough time to tighten his hold on Pitch before the Nightmare King let out an eerie whoop and the night mares surged up into the shadowy recesses of the roof of the lair. They reached no roof, but suddenly there was no light visible at all, not even Sandy’s own, and the air around them seemed to become as thick as cream. Sandy buried his face in Pitch’s robe to shut out the terrible absence of light and the suffocating closeness, yet since Pitch was caught up in the ride this only made his fears worse. _There’s no need to panic, you don’t need to breathe, you’re eyes are closed and that’s why it’s dark_ , he thought in a desperate attempt to calm himself. This didn’t help. A small part of his mind told him, quite calmly, _you are going to panic, and soon, if this doesn’t stop_. His growing fear seeped into Pitch, of course, which was then projected outward from him, which caused Sandy to fear more—there was no way to break the feedback loop. There would never be any way to break this feedback loop. Sandy felt his fingers digging into Pitch’s sides, probably hurting him, but there was no way on Earth or any other realm that he was going to let go.

 

            Then, just as suddenly as they had entered the utter darkness, Pitch, Sandy, Tenebrae, and the rest of the night mares emerged into the cool, damp air of an October night, riding at full gallop down an ordinary suburban street. Sandy gulped down shuddering breaths and realized that he was no longer afraid. And yet here he was, still riding a night mare and still holding on to Pitch. Sandy decided he would puzzle that out later. Now, he was going to enjoy the nightmare hunt. The wind in his hair he always loved, and he found he could not help but be enchanted by the contrast of the fearsome horses with the neat lawns and unvarying colors of the houses.

 

            As they rode, mares would peel away from the group every now and again, to dive through a house. When they returned to the hunt, they would come up to the front, near Pitch, where they would breathe out great steaming breaths of pure fear, which Pitch would breathe in with an ecstatic gasp. Sandy thought he would like to see Pitch’s face at these times. Yet even though he knew he could keep up with the night mares, and that he couldn’t really be in any danger from them, he still didn’t think he wanted to push his luck, especially so close to Halloween. In any case, he didn’t want to have to defend himself. No, he’d keep contact with Pitch.

 

            After a time, Pitch threw his arms wide, hanging on to the horse with his knees, letting the black sand stream from his fingertips. It was, Sandy thought, almost exactly like the moment when he would let the dreamsand go from his place in the sky. Though the black sand brought fear, it also brought possibility with the fantastic shapes Pitch formed it into—possibility that there were things beyond the mundane world. What Pitch did, when he was at his best, fostered belief just as much as what the Guardians did.

 

            They rode for many hours, and eventually Pitch began to turn the mares away from populated areas, to bring them to a halt on a dry plain far from any human habitation. “Sandy,” he said, his voice sounding strange, “I’m glad you’ve been here with me for part of this ride. But now…I think it might be better if you left me until…after Halloween.” Sandy let go of Pitch’s waist and floated around to face him. His eyes glittered oddly in the light from Sandy and the stars. “I don’t want to cause you any harm, Sandy, and some part of me doubts that I could. But at this time of year, and with the way I feel right now…stronger than ever before…more Boogeyman than Pitch Black…I’m acting almost purely on instinct right now. It’s costing me a great deal to stay still and talk with you. What I mean to say, Sandy, is that I felt your fear as we passed to the surface. It was…intoxicating.” He closed his eyes and shivered. “But after all you’ve done…for me, I don’t want you to be afraid. It took all my willpower, all the control you’ve taught me, not to prolong that moment. But Sandy, Sandy…sweeter than honey and stronger than wine...” He licked his lips unconsciously. “Forgive me. I feel I will be safer when the holiday has passed.”

 

            Sandy smiled at him, a little calendar appearing above his head, November 1st circled. He wouldn’t miss it for the world.

 

            “Farewell, Sandman.” In a torrent of darkness, the nightmare hunt was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was the train thing too obvious? I laughed anyway...
> 
> Also if you don't know what "The Curious Sofa" is, I suggest looking it up.


	5. Sandy's Bedtime Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandy tells Pitch a story.

In that last week of October, Sandy made a special effort to make sure he was spreading a lot of good dreams wherever he knew Tooth’s fairies or Jack Frost were. Pitch needed Halloween, and the others might not understand, not yet. Frost would be easiest to persuade, but it was still too soon. So around them it still had to appear that Pitch was nearly powerless, as he had been made only a few months ago.

 

            When Halloween was over for all the world, Sandy went immediately to Pitch’s lair. He expected to find Pitch in the throne room, or somewhere else central, celebrating his success. But no one was there. He checked the library and the theater and the bed alcove, though if Pitch was sleeping or trying to sleep he would know. Nothing. Sandy began to feel slightly worried. Was Pitch still out? Had his new and still fragile grip on sanity failed? Was he simply wandering the Nightmare Realms? This last option was actually the one Sandy was most hoping against. The Nightmare Realms were enormous now, and to find Pitch in his own demesne without changing it could take forever. True, Sandy could force the nightmare sand to become dreamsand and give Pitch up, but that would undo all his progress. He was standing in the throne room considering what to do, when a clatter of hooves caused him to take flight.

 

            A night mare trotted into the room, looking up at Sandy with golden eyes. She tossed her head, softly nickering. Sandy floated slightly closer, and image of him and Pitch on a horse appearing above his head, followed by a question mark. She blinked slowly at him before turning her head several times in the direction from which she had come. Sandy nodded, and she turned around and set back off at a canter. She led him through what seemed like miles of mazelike passages until they reached a long room—the night mare stables. Tenebrae walked through the stalls—all of which, Sandy noticed, had beautiful wrought-iron nameplates. Most stalls were occupied, but Tenebrae went straight to a pair of empty ones in the center of the rows. One was hers. The other’s nameplate said “Onyx”, and as Sandy looked over the edge he discovered it was not actually empty. On the slate floor, Pitch was curled, eyes nearly closed, but not attempting to sleep.

 

            “Sandy. I know you’re here. And I know…I know that you were right now. About the globe. And I know…that I’ll always be different from the Guardians. If I do…what makes me stronger in all other ways.” Sandy floated down by Pitch and sat next to his knees. “I felt so wonderful, all through the end of October. Halloween was glorious. So many who wanted to be scared. I cast more shadows, gathered more fear—but it doesn’t matter. Because for me, as my fear keeps them safe, or helps them to see the world strange again—what makes it good is that there is nothing there when they look. It’s the potential that something might be there, in the next shadow, that keeps fear strong. That adds suspense to mystery. Showing what’s there ruins it. If  there’s a giant spider on page 1000, I’ve got to keep them at page 999. I must have no solid form for them. I should have realized it sooner, but I was…hoping, hoping, that on Halloween they would see me, because in many ways, they were looking for me. Yet as keyed up as I was on all their fear, I kept doing what I think I’m supposed to do, because that keeps me strong. And no one saw me. Not really me. Shadows. Flickers in the light. So I guess those are my options. Strong, sane, and forever unseen, or insane, weak, teetering on the edge of snuffing myself out, seen by those that hate me, and subject to periodic beatings.

 

            “I’ve come to understand why there has to be a Boogeyman, Sandy. But now I can’t help but wonder why it has to be me…forever.”

 

            Sandy lowered himself to the stall floor to be face to face with Pitch. <No answers. Boogeyman is lone…Pitch Black is lonely.>

 

            “I’m glad you’re here, Sandy, though I don’t know why you keep coming back. Sometimes, when it’s just us here, I imagine that…oh, nevermind.”

 

            Sandy wanted him to say whatever he was going to say, but he always would respect when anyone didn’t want to speak. An image of Pitch falling asleep appeared over his head, followed by a question mark.

 

            “No, no. I don’t want you to send me to sleep. If you don’t object…would you hold me until I fell asleep on my own?”

 

            Sandy nodded, moving into a corner of the stall where he could sit and have his back supported. Pitch uncurled a little and crawled over to Sandy so he could rest his head on his chest. “You smell like brown sugar,” he murmured. “It’s funny, almost, how I notice that, but you’ve been able to keep your fears totally secret from me this whole time—well except for when we left the lair.” He shifted his legs slightly. “Even when we’re so close. But…I’m not going to think about that now.”

 

            Sandy wrapped his arms around Pitch’s shoulders as best he could. <Tell you a story.> Pitch laughed a little, as he hoped he would. “I’m guessing it’s going to be a short story?” Sandy patted his hair and continued. <Once upon a time, in the moment when humans were just barely humans, there lived a tribe in a hard and wild country. They were prey to the great cats, and the terrible storms that swept across the plains, and the wildfires that would sweep the grasslands after lightning strikes. But in that tribe there was a clear-eyed hunter who saw all this, and with his clear eyes and keen mind, began to become more than a hunter. He watched all day and all night when he could, and he learned the ways of the wind and the sky and the great cats. So when the fires came he knew which way the tribe should run to avoid the flames and smoke, and when the storms came he knew they were coming from a long way off and could tell the tribe when to take shelter in the caves, and when the great cats came he could tell the tribe when to stay still, when to run and in what direction. He could tell them which cats hunted in groups and which ran fast but were slow to turn, what were fresh tracks and what were old, and who the cats would target in the tribe and needed the most protection. And so the tribe lost fewer people to its scourges. But that is not what the tribe noticed. In his pride, and not having the words to explain, the clear-eyed hunter had not passed his deepest knowledge on to any other. And so the tribe began to think that he was calling disasters toward them, using his uncanny knowledge to gain adulation as he drew them nearer to harm. They muttered to each other that he was holding the tribe in the grip of fear that he caused. Surely there had not been as many great cats, and storms, and fires before his supposed warnings? And now he did not even hunt any more, but spent his time always watching, and still expecting to share in the meat the real hunters brought back! It was not right. His body was able enough. He was not like the dwarf storyteller, who could not run after the antelope till they fell.

 

            <One hot, dry season, the clear-eyed hunter had found that with nothing but a little noise, whole herds of antelope could be driven in a panic over a cliff. There was no need for the hunters to risk getting gored by their horns for many days. All could feast. But the hunters did not care about the abundance of food. They cared about the lack of glory in such a hunt, if hunt it could be called. “Is it not enough that the watcher will not hunt?” They asked themselves. “Does he wish to deprive us of our proper place as well?” And so one night they said, “The watcher is no part of our tribe. He is a snake in our midst, leading us into danger again and again. One day he may draw the danger to us and leave us to it, perhaps for a meager slight. One need only look at his proud gaze to understand that. What is more, he tells the tribe things that may deprive us hunters of our proper role. If he leads us to no danger from without, he will lead us to chaos from within.” And there was a long pause. And finally, one said, “He must die.”

 

            <Fearing no consequences, then,  the hunters gathered under the light of the full moon, and, using the skills the clear-eyed watcher had taught them in order to avoid the great cats, snuck up on the watcher and seized him. He raised a great cry, asking them why they did such a thing, again and again. The tribe woke, but who would dare stand against the hunters? Only the dwarf storyteller followed them as they left the camp, safe from them in his strangeness, and that he would never be a threat to them or hold anything they thought they would ever need or want. One even noticed him and called for him to follow closer, if he could, with many mocking words.

 

            <The hunters carried the clear-eyed watcher to the cliff over which the antelope had leapt only a few days before. There they held him, under the full moon, never telling him why they did such a thing—they thought he knew, and it was past time to explain. Looking into each other’s eyes and silently agreeing with each other that the thing they did was right, the hunters threw the watcher over the cliff to die on the rocks below. And after they had done this, one turned to the dwarf storyteller and said “Remember this. This is a story with a useful lesson. You shall tell it often.” Sick at heart, the dwarf storyteller knew he would never forget this night as long as he lived, whether he wished to or no, whether he told the story or no.

 

            <He watched at the edge of the cliff until the dawn light revealed the watcher’s body among the bones of the antelope. The man would move no more. Yet deep within his storyteller’s heart he knew that the clear-eyed watcher’s story had not ended.>

 

            Pitch was silent, but Sandy knew he was not asleep. “Sandy,” he said, just when he had begun to think he would say nothing, “was that a true story?”

 

            Sandy stroked Pitch’s hair. <Can’t say.> Pitch’s hair was surprisingly soft. < ‘You shouldn’t trust the storyteller; only trust the story’.>

 

            Pitch sighed and closed his eyes. “I’m afraid it is.” Sandy merely continued to slowly run his fingers through Pitch’s hair until he fell asleep. It took a very long time.

 

            _Finally!_ Sandy thought as Pitch’s breathing slowed and deepened. He let a bit of dreamsand fall on to Pitch’s face, enough to keep him asleep. He was not going to let either himself or Pitch sleep in an empty stall. And they weren’t going back to Pitch’s uncomfortable bed either. No. Tonight they would be on the pillow in the theater, and that was that.

 

            Sandy pondered how best to lift Pitch’s tall, skinny form before deciding to just sling him over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. As his waist bumped against the back of Sandy’s head, Pitch moved uncomfortably in his sleep. Sandy was about to hit him with more dreamsand, before remembering his grip during the ride with the nightmares. Had he bruised Pitch? It seemed likely, but why had Pitch not healed himself? Sandy decided to check later, but now the important thing was to find his way back to the throne room.

 

            Remembering the labyrinthine way back to the stables turned out to be the simplest part of the journey. Far more complicated was flying down the passage to the theater while making sure not to hit Pitch’s head or legs— _So much leg!—_ on the broken masonry. Finally, though, Pitch was safely asleep on the pillow, the dreamsand from before forming into little, fragmented images—leaves and wind and candy and lightning. It seemed safe enough, so Sandy, once more, curled up under Pitch’s arm and closed his eyes.


	6. A Case of Mistaken Identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pitch is mistaken for someone else and it turns out well, Sandy tells another story.

“…a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind…” Pitch awoke to find Sandy contentedly watching The Twilight Zone from the circle of his arms. “Sandy, why did you take me out of Onyx’s stall?” he asked, quickly letting Sandy go. Sandy looked at him with the expression of one about to explain something very simple to someone very slow. A flat surface appeared above his head, then a pillow. A greater than sign appeared between the two, the open end facing the pillow.

 

            “Well maybe before…all this, that might have made a difference. But since you insist on curling up next to me with inexplicable regularity, I haven’t had any aches and pains at all. So it doesn’t really matter where I sleep now.”

 

            A little Pitch appeared above Sandy’s head along with a cone. The tiny Pitch approached the tip of the cone again and again, but was repelled every time.

 

            “If I’m missing the point, what is the point?”

 

            Sandy threw his hands in the air and changed tactics, flipping open Pitch’s robe to reveal a pair of bruises in the shape of small hands along the sides of his slender waist. “HEY! Oh, those.”

 

            <Lying about no pain.> “This is different Sandy, leave me alone.” Sandy shook his head firmly. A question mark appeared above him, next to an image of Pitch putting a band-aid on himself, covered by the “no” sign. “Well you know I was quite busy when I acquired those bruises, I didn’t have time to heal myself. And I wasn’t in the mood to do so when I got back. I’ll get to them, really.”

 

            Sandy stared at him skeptically. _And rightfully so!_ Pitch thought. The power coursing through him on Halloween would have healed the bruises automatically if he hadn’t kept them. However, explaining that he had kept the bruises as memento of both Sandy’s fear and Sandy’s hands on him would, he knew, sound rather deranged and repulsive to the Guardian. “Look, Sandy,” he said, pushing himself off the pillow and reclosing his robe, “a little bruising is also not the point. Resting…I’ll be honest, resting with you with me helped me a little, but I’m still facing the fact that you’re the only friendly face who’s ever going to look at me and see me. I’m not…not really in the mood to argue. Or to be looked through, for that matter. I’m going to go work from the throne room.”

 

            Sandy rolled his eyes at Pitch’s retreating back. There was no way he was going to let Pitch mope around for who knew how long. But the only thing guaranteed to drive away his mood was being seen by someone else. A wide grin split Sandy’s face and a lightbulb appeared above his head. He knew just the person.

 

            “All right, Sandy, what’s the surprise? If that is in fact what you were trying to convey with your dreamsand.” They were standing on the roof of a hotel. Sandy held up a hand towards Pitch and put the forefinger of his other hand to his lips. He closed his eyes, his face composed into an expression that Pitch recognized as one that showed he was looking for a particular person with his mind. After a few moments he opened his eyes, nodded at Pitch, and floated over the edge of the roof. Shaking his head, Pitch followed, standing on a cloud of nightmare sand. What could Sandy possibly have in mind? Then again, Pitch had to admit it didn’t really matter. No matter how justified he felt in doing so, brooding in the throne room was exceedingly dull. Yet stopping always felt like giving up. No matter what Sandy’s idea for this expedition was, at least he could tell himself he had been railroaded out of his proper dismalness.

 

            Pitch caught up to Sandy by a window on one of the upper floors. He threaded a strand of dreamsand through the window frame near the latch, then used it to dismantle the latch and open the window. Pitch smiled, leaning up against the balcony railing. “All right, I admit I am surprised. Breaking and entering with the Sandman. Are you showing me how you obtain all your books?” Sandy shook his head and smirked at Pitch. As he floated in, he made a point of jiggling the latch to show that it wasn’t actually broken.

 

            Pitch followed Sandy inside the room. It was fairly large, but in most ways it looked like any other hotel room. As he noticed the suitcases, Pitch couldn’t help but wonder if this _was_ how Sandy obtained his reading material. Whoever was staying here had brought along a reasonable amount of clothes and an entirely unreasonable number of books. But yes, who indeed had Sandy brought him to see? There had to be something important about this person. He walked closer to the single large bed, near which Sandy was floating. In Sandy’s light he could read a post-it note stuck to a mobile phone on the nightstand, it said “call Amanda”. It was highly uninformative. Sandy moved slightly closer to the sleeper’s face and beckoned Pitch forward.

 

            The sleeper was an adult man with brown curly hair beginning to go gray. “He looks familiar,” Pitch said, “though I can’t tell where I’ve seen him before. Well, one face out of billions, after a while you run out of variations—so, Sandy, why are we here?” Sandy pointed to the sleeper, then his eyes, then Pitch.

 

            “What! Sandy, is this some kind of cruel—no, no, you aren’t cruel, at least not on purpose—but is this a joke? This man won’t be able to see me! Aside from no one being able to see me, he’s a grown-up! Grown-ups never see anyone like you or me!” Sandy began to grin as Pitch got more and more agitated, raising his voice. “I mean, I guess I can appreciate the thought, but did you think this through? Even a carefully chosen grown-up—oh, it’s just impossible!”

 

            At that moment Sandy rushed up to Pitch, ruffled his hair until it was sticking out in all directions. “Hey!” He then withdrew the small amount of dreamsand that had been keeping the man asleep and floated away so that he was hiding behind the dresser.

 

            As Sandy had taken the dreamsand away, Pitch had thought there was something again, oddly familiar about the content, but he hadn’t been paying enough attention to it to figure out what. It was just another strange thing about the evening, and Pitch was getting a bit fed up with it all.

 

            “All right, Sandy, you’re really going to have to explain—in WORDS—” Pitch peered through his disarrayed hair to see that the sleeping man had woken and was staring in his direction with an expression of utter astonishment. He sighed in annoyance. “Oh honestly, what are you looking at? There’s nothing in the shadows over here except me and a bunch of books. And it’s too dark to see the books and I’m categorically invisible.”

 

            It was then Pitch’s turn to be utterly astonished as the man shook his head very slightly. In his moment of shock, he suddenly remembered where he had seen the man before, and figured out why Sandy had attacked his hair.

 

            “Am I, er, dreaming?”

 

            “No,” Pitch replied, too startled to be talking to be human to say anything but the bare truth.

 

            “If it’s all right with you,” the man said, swallowing nervously, “I’m going to keep believing I’m dreaming.”

 

            “Whatever gets you through the night.” Pitch grinned, knowing how unsettling it would be. “However, I will concede that what you probably suspect about this encounter does not correspond to the reality of the situation.”

 

            “Okay, that’s sort of a relief, but in that case, what is going on here? I mean, in this has-to-be-a-dream.”

 

            “It’s a very long story. Suffice to say that normally people do not see me. It is a…trying…sort of existence. My companion this evening singled you out as one who is uniquely able to see and speak to me.” Pitch hoped his voice was remaining under control. He was having a normal conversation with a human! An adult human! How many of the Guardians had done that?

 

            “Wow. Wow. Wow. So many questions. I don’t know if I want all the answers. Because if I get more answers this starts seeming less and less like a dream, and if any of this was real, do you understand how _terrifying_ that would be? Wonderful...but very terrifying.”

 

            “I understand perfectly, Neil—if I may call you that.”

 

            “Wha—? Yeah, sure, go ahead, I mean—of course you know my name, of course, of course—” He ran a hand through his hair, then over his face. “Er, I hope I’m not being rude by staring—”

 

            Pitch interrupted with a laugh full of sharp edges. “Believe me when I say that your staring is the highest compliment you could pay to me. In any case, Neil, I do understand how terrifying it would be for you if you woke up in the morning and couldn’t convince yourself this was a dream. I can feel that fear racing in your blood right now. Like clear cool water.”

 

            “Who are you, really?”

 

            “Forgive me, but my own fear forbids me from answering. If I told you who I was, I might disappear. It only takes an instant of disbelief for me to vanish.”

 

            “Vanish, or just be invisible to me?”

 

            “Oh, just be invisible to you.”

 

            “But you’d still be here? That’s pretty creepy.”

 

            “Thank you. But I manage creepy quite easily these days; conversation is far more difficult.”

 

            “Don’t you have anyone to talk to wherever you’re from?”

 

            “Four I can talk to and that may talk back, though they are all quite hostile to me at this time. One…my companion…that I can talk to, though I do not believe he has uttered a sound in a very, very long time. I’d introduce him, but that would make things very complicated.”

 

            “I’m feeling far too awake for this conversation to be taking place. But…if I believe that I met you in a dream, would you still be able to come back to talk after tonight? Not that I’m asking you to go, no! I’m just thinking of the future. Whether this or you are real or not, everyone needs someone to talk to. Hell, if this is all in my head maybe continuing conversations are even more important.”

 

            “I don’t know what would enable you to see me again. But I think I will try, in the future. Now, I have a question for you. Is it true that if a person does not dream, that person will go mad?”

 

            He blinked in surprise at the question. “As far as I know, yes. They’ve only proved that not sleeping will damage the brain, but people go into dream states almost immediately when they’re finally able to sleep after being deprived of it. So it seems to make sense that dreaming is the important part of sleep.”

 

            “Hmmm. I was mad for several decades, recently. Maybe longer. Now though…now I’ve never been better.”

           

Pitch paced a little. “That being the case, I am now well acquainted with the value of a good night’s sleep. And no matter what you think, you are not asleep right now. So. How to do this.

 

            “Do what?”

 

            “Before I try anything, I want to, against my nature, tell you that you shouldn’t be afraid of being forgotten. You have two fans who are going to be around for a very, very long time.”

 

            Neil grinned. “If you were looking for something to say to incline me to believing that this was real, you just hit the nail on the head.”

 

            Pitch smiled and moved closer. “Thank you for speaking with me. Now, I do apologize for this, as I’m fairly sure it will not be pleasant. But I guarantee that it will be interesting.” A puzzled expression passed over the man’s face for an instant before Pitch dusted black sand across his eyes and he fell asleep. “All right, that was surprisingly simple. But of course he’s not going to be sleeping soundly—Sandy! Where are you?”

 

            Sandy floated up to Pitch from his hiding place, finger to his lips. “If you would…?” Sandy nodded, dusting dreamsand over the man’s eyes as well. Pitch smoothed his hair back and watched the black and golden sands interact. Sandy hadn’t chosen to just make the black sand gold. Instead, the grains moved around each other like two flocks of birds wheeling in the sky. “When he starts to dream, what will our sands form?” <Anything. Anything at all.>

 

            “Sandy…thank you for this. I feel like I should have felt after Halloween now. Come on! Let’s go somewhere! Otherwise I’m going to wake him up again!” Pitch smiled. “Listen to me! I’m worried about accidentally doing the one thing I thought was _forever_ impossible for me!” He began to laugh and Sandy moved them both out the window on a cloud of dreamsand.

 

            Back on the roof, Pitch spun around in giddy circles. “Sandy, do you even begin to comprehend how much I had to restrain myself from jumping up and down when I realized he could actually see me? I’m glad I did, I do have a reputation to maintain. I wonder if this would work with others? Stephen? Clive? Oh I don’t caaaaare! I’ve been seen! So what if I’m not doing my job when I’m seen! Everyone needs a vacation now and then and it is _possible_.” He grabbed Sandy’s hands and whirled him around. “Don’t tell anyone about this, mind you.”

 

            Sandy laughed silently. “But then, there was also something important. About the lack of dreams causing insanity. Sandy…is that why I was mad?”

 

            Sandy’s face was solemn. He looked into Pitch’s eyes, more golden than he’d seen them in centuries, and nodded.

 

            Pitch looked away. “Why did you do it, Sandy? I still don’t have any firm memories of my past. And in these past months you came and helped me even after I tried to kill you. Even after my actions almost wiped out you, me, and the rest of the Guardians. What happened? Did I do something…worse?”

 

            It was Sandy’s turn to look away. <Not…worse. Will explain.> Sandy beckoned to Pitch and floated into the night sky. Pitch followed. They would walk in the air, then. Where it was…safer? Pitch sensed a thin tendril of fear from Sandy, one that he was doing his best to conceal. Sandy feared that Pitch would attack/hate/reject him after hearing this story. There was another layer too, but Sandy had managed to conceal that.

 

            Sandy floated beside Pitch so that their faces were level. <You, me. We were the first two Guardians. Long time. I was happy. Thought you were. No one saw you then. No one supposed to see me—supposed to be asleep when I come. We were the other’s stay against loneliness. Opposites that were nearly the same. We were friends. Friends? Poor word. Friends like the right hand is friends with the left. Friends like breath is friends with the lungs. Our long companionship is why you can hear me like this—the others can’t. Anyway, five, six hundred years ago—my memory is not exact either—not good to remember everything, when we live so long—the other Guardians appeared.

 

            <They were and are important, but they were always limited, compared to you and me. Perhaps that is what made it easier for them to be seen. No, that is unkind to everyone. No matter the reason why, they were seen. Believed in as themselves. As was I, as were you, then. But you were not seen, as you did your duties. The rest of us were.>

 

            Sandy shook his head. <This is out of order. Too many words. Never told this before. When North, Tooth, and Bunny appeared, we met them. I befriended them easily. They all saw aspects of themselves in what I did. You…you were never easy to befriend. And no matter how much any of them may deny it, it is difficult for immortals to understand your purpose. Especially ones like them, who need interact with mortals so rarely. Especially when they were so new, so young. They are so wrapped up in their purposes that they forget that no matter how much wonder and hope they spread, no matter how many good memories are saved, there are always things to be afraid of.

 

            <Things were uneasy for a time. Eventually, you began to pay more attention to how often they—and I, by then—were seen. It burned you. I saw you less, forgetting that I was the only one that did. You still did your work, but—I don’t know exactly what the case was, but North, Tooth, and Bunny treated what you did as if there was malice behind it. Maybe there was, maybe you started to believe there was. I didn’t talk to you as much as I should have. It had only been a few decades, after all. And I’ve never liked talking. Then, maliciously or not, you started to see yourself as the opposite—the hostile opposite—to me and the others.  More than this, you tried to be seen. There were ways…and when your efforts became harmful, we Guardians stopped you. I, because I knew it was not your purpose, they, because they began to think one of their purposes was to be set against fear.

 

            <You were not mad then. I still sent you dreams. And every time I saw you I begged you to try to explain yourself to the Guardians, one more time, so that they could understand that you too were vital. But rejected once, and knowing how much power you had held before they came, you always refused. You were still a king, you said, and would not go groveling to usurpers.

 

            <Aside from sadly regular battles, they mostly ignored you. You mostly ignored me. I knew I must have seemed like a traitor to our old friendship. This went on for hundreds of years. Other spirits appeared. Jack Frost appeared, the fearless boy—he and his sister the only ones on the ice that day—I believe that you had managed to convince the other children that it was too thin. The equilibrium continued for hundreds more.

 

            <About seventy years ago, many terrible things happened, things that had not been possible before. Why had these things been done? Some mortals blamed fear. The Guardians heard. I could not convince them that you would not orchestrate such things. That the fear was not the fear you fostered. They began to plan to stamp you out once and for all. Before their plans were complete I sought you out. I told you what was coming, and once more asked you to come back with me and explain who you really were, to take up your true purpose once more. Prove that you were good, if not tame.

 

            <You asked me why I kept asking you to do this. I told you. You laughed, and said that I must be lying or insane. You said…many cruel things. I was...very angry. You had rejected your…one almost-companion. You had thrown in your lot for loneliness, and you didn’t seem interested in being dragged from that pit. I vowed to send you no more dreams from that day forth.

 

            <It has taken me until now to both realize I was wrong and take steps toward righting that wrong. I am sorry. I am ashamed. So much damage…I did not realize madness would take your memory. I do not know if your memory will ever come back.>

 

            Sandy stopped in the air, and looked at Pitch. The expression on his face reminded Pitch of how he had looked just before closing his eyes and letting the nightmare sand cover him in their deadly-intentioned battle. Pitch looked off into the distance. “I understand. Did Jack Frost tell you all about our encounter at the pole? When he refused to join me I did all I could to leave him there, alone and powerless. It seems we do not handle rejection well.

 

            “But Sandman…what was your reason? What did you say that I couldn’t believe?”

 

            Sandy shook his head. “No more talking tonight, hmm? Well it’s not as though you haven’t said enough for me to think on.” Pitch folded his arms. “I hope you’ll understand that I’d like to be alone for a while, though, now. And I mean it this time. I don’t want to be distracted. I’ve got to think. I’ve got to….I want to choose the next time I see you, if I do. But I’m not sure how.”

 

            Sandy nodded sadly. He called up a little bit of dreamsand and shaped it into a large, elaborate key. With that key, he drew a door in the air and opened it. When the door opened, Pitch could see the golden shores of Dreamland, the edge of the shell-like palace, and the glittering, glowing ocean reflecting the light cast by the huge, close stars of Dreamland’s sky. A warm breeze smelling of sea salt and roses wafted through the opening. Pitch swallowed and looked away. There was no need to learn to love Dreamland, as he had learned to love the Nightmare Realms. No one could see it and not long for it.

 

            Pitch felt something being pressed into his hand and looked down to see Sandy giving him the key. “Won’t I die if I go to Dreamland?”

 

            <Is that what you’ve been telling yourself?> Sandy’s lips twitched into the beginnings of a smile. Then, without any further fuss, he walked through the door and closed it behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sorry, Neil!


	7. Tiger! Tiger!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pitch goes to Dreamland and reads some poetry, wild animals are released into the world, Pitch freaks out a little bit, Sandy gets what he wants and the fic finally starts to earn its M rating.

Pitch created a pocket in his robe and placed the key within. He wandered through the night, sending off nightmares, crafting fantastic fears, all as usual. Very usual. He had had fifty thousand years of experience in this, after all. And of those fifty thousand years of memories only fragments remained, wiped out by an eyeblink of madness. He had needed to relearn everything. And all because of Sandman, and one moment. No, not one moment. Millions of moments, probably. There was something vitally important about what Sandman wouldn’t say. And would he give Sandman a chance to say it later?

                        

            Yes. Pitch could pretend to himself that he would make Sandman wait, and suffer, unsure if he was going to be given a second chance, but it simply wasn’t true. Sandman had given him more chances than anyone ever had. It was only fair for Pitch to do the same for him. _Besides_ , Pitch thought, smiling wryly, _might not Sandman’s actions in anger still prove a boon? Maybe Sandy can’t even harm someone when he tries._ Pitch did not think he really wanted to remember his whole past. So many years would crush him. Let the reemerging fragments be enough. As for any damage he might have done while mad—what would it have been? Nothing the Guardians had not been able to keep in check. This last battle had been his closest approach to what he thought was victory.

 

            And so he would take this chance to start anew, and not alone. For even a few hundred years of loneliness had twisted him. He would not allow that to happen again. He would have his purpose, and he would have Sandman to remind him. He would not allow them to be separated any longer—though in some ways Pitch knew their proximity to each other would prove equally painful. If only Sandy did not insist on such physical closeness…

 

            Pitch wandered the surface for a few more nights, as mortals measured them, feeling the weight of the key in his pocket the entire time. It was a promise, just for him. An invitation to Dreamland. He wanted to savor it for a little while. And as he wandered, he let himself pretend that maybe, the thing Sandy did not say, and the thing the key meant, were the same thing, and that they were…and that when he went to Dreamland…no. That was surely impossible.

 

            Eventually Pitch stood on a chilly northern beach under a clouded sky. He took the key and drew a door in the air just as Sandy had done. Still with a great deal of trepidation, he placed the key where the keyhole would be and opened the door to Dreamland. Before he could think, he stepped through and closed the door behind him, the key immediately dissolving into grains of sand that flew off toward the palace.

            He was too stunned to move. All he could manage to do was breathe. If he tried to move, he was sure he would fall over. Being in Dreamland was _intoxicating_. He was enveloped in its warm breezes that wafted by with sweet and enticing scents, caused his robe to flutter open, and played along his bare skin. His eyes were dazzled by a golden world that nevertheless managed to shine with all colors, especially in the gentle twilight of the sky. Behind the huge stars he could see a glorious tapestry of blues, purples, roses, greens. He wanted to memorize it. He was going to fall into it.

 

            With difficulty, he tore his eyes from the sky and began to figure out where he was. Dreamland, he seemed to recall, was an archipelago. He was not on the palace island, but rather a small island nearby, which seemed to contain nothing but a grove of giant flowers. The palace, looking like many shells joined together into a harmonious whole, was visible across a narrow channel. Pitch wondered if he was expected to swim to the palace. Surely he couldn’t summon a cloud of nightmare sand here—or could he? He moved his hands in the familiar motions which called nightmare sand to him, and though he sensed some resistance, the sand came. As he summoned it, he realized it was coming from the Nightmare Realms, and always had. On Earth, though, it came so instantaneously that he hadn’t had to think about it.

 

            He hoped Sandy wouldn’t mind the black sand. It wouldn’t spread if he didn’t want it to—and he didn’t want it to.

 

            When he had enough sand, he formed it into a small platform and floated across the channel to the palace island, and around the palace till he found the main entrance.

 

            The tall doors, looking like they had been made by the intertwining growth of many kinds of strange seaweed, were wide open. As he entered the golden halls and made his way slowly towards the palace center—his path chosen based solely on a feeling in the back of his mind—Pitch could not help but stare. Everything in the palace flowed together seamlessly, though in the passages and chambers were many things that, when considered logically, should be completely incongruent. Yet the beauty of the place was such that any dissonance or conscious objections were overwhelmed. By the time he reached the throne room, he was sure he had walked miles. Strange miles—his head was crowded with images of the intricate whirling machine made all of glass that blew tesseract-shaped bubbles; the crystal sherbet cups set for two, filled with watch parts that would taste like vanilla and lemon and fresh garden earth; an ostrich made entirely of clarinets and clarinet parts; Mobius eels; the locker filled with herbs blooming into hummingbirds; the infinite staircase made up of true fortune-cookie fortunes; the room where all the furniture was made of songs; the fully-set dining room where everything was covered in fur (a teacup, saucer, and spoon were missing); masks made of newsprint modeled on mannequins that were clearly major cities; jeroboams of water labeled with the names of deserts; the orrery that had followed him around for a while like a small dog; the tree with nine massive leaves made of quilted baby blankets, jellyfish that smelled like they actually were made of grape jelly; the figure Pitch had thought to be a person but which had turned out to be an egg hatching a lily held in a giant hand; the rose-covered skull holding a single yard-long horn; and many others.

 

            The throne room itself was relatively simple. Yes, the windowsills were carved with Pre-Cambrian sea creatures, but everything else was composed of large, flowing, organic shapes. An orchid-like lamp shed golden light over the large space, illuminating Sandy’s globe, which was set off to the side yet glowing very brightly, a few stylized blanket octopuses that were also bookcases, and the throne, which, though stylish, was functionally clearly a comfortable overstuffed chair. Sandy was sitting on it reading a book.

 

            “Sandy?” He looked up and smiled tentatively at Pitch. “I’ve come to say—” _that Dreamland is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen_ “that I forgive you. I mean, really, how could it be a question? You still helped me after I tried to do worse to you. You and the other Guardians are powerful enough that you didn’t have to give me back my dreams—my purpose. So regardless of how this started…I thank you for that. As for my memories—enough will come back, I think. I don’t want them all. I feel like I’ve been starting over and…that might be good.” A smirk tugged at Pitch’s lips. “Also, I’m not self-destructive enough to submit to loneliness when you seem to want me around…um, if you actually do?”

 

            Sandy beamed at him and nodded. Pitch’s smirk softened into a small smile. “Heaven knows why though. It can’t be that you’re looking for someone to talk to.” Sandy tilted his hand from side to side. “Sort of? But you talk so rarely—and it’s not me talking to you that you enjoy unequivocally—I’ve seen you roll your eyes at me when I’ve gotten to ranting about a book or movie. Hmmm. Well, maybe you’ll tell me someday.”

 

            Pitch walked over to the windows, followed by Sandy, still holding his book. Outside, low dunes fell to a smooth beach, washed by the shining gold water. In the silence, Pitch could hear the hypnotic susurration of the waves. It was indescribably lovely, peaceful, and antithetical to his whole existence. He never wanted to leave. And yet… “Sandy, for some reason I thought that your throne room was at the center of the palace. But it’s clearly on the exterior. However, I had to go almost all the way around to find the entrance, and I didn’t see any windows like these. And why did it take me so long to get to this room? This island and the palace didn’t seem that large from the outside. How does it all work?”

 

            Sandy’s face became thoughtful. <Globe room always at center. Wanted ocean view though so—> An image of a sphere encased in a larger sphere appeared above his head.

 

            “Are you saying that there’s a second Dreamland outside those windows?”

 

            Sandy shook his head and held up one finger while the archipelago formed above his head. <Infinite. Just changed organization.>

 

            “I guess that also explains why the palace is bigger on the inside.” Sandy shook his head again. <Not usually. Don’t need so much indoor space. Palace showing off. Not many visitors.>

 

            “Showing off, or leading me the long way around to discourage me so that I left? You know Sandy, even though you gave me an invitation to be here, I’m surprised that the land itself hasn’t kicked me out.”

 

            Sandy expression became exasperated. An image of himself appeared next to the archipelago, then they both merged into the number 1. A pair of parallel lines formed, then an image of Pitch and some of the features of the nightmare realm, also merging into the number 1. <We are our lands. Palace was showing off.>

 

            “Oh…” _Showing off for me? Consciously or not? Should I press the point?_ “What do you mean, not many visitors? Are you telling me that North, Tooth, Bunny, Frost, the other spirits, aren’t begging to visit this place whenever they are able to? That doesn’t make any sense! I mean, this place of peace, possibilities, imagination, warmth, light—it’s far more beautiful than the Workshop, Warren, Tooth Palace, wherever the hell Jack Frost lives now, if anywhere—better than all those places combined! Do they not SEE it? I can’t imagine that you don’t invite them.”

 

            Sandy laughed silently at Pitch’s indignation. <Not everyone is obsessed with Dreamland.>

 

            “I—” Pitch stopped short, then visibly calmed himself. “I’m not obsessed with Dreamland any more than it deserves to be obsessed over.” Sandy grinned widely and grabbed Pitch’s elbow, leading him back to the throne. He gestured to a space beside the throne, an image of Pitch shaping sand into a chair appearing above his head.

 

            Pitch felt himself smiling, then quickly stopped. Dreamland must be getting to him. “I don’t think I should be bringing more nightmare sand here, Sandy. I know that it’s not dangerous to Dreamland…but doesn’t it sully the place?”

 

            <I say it doesn’t. See if you can work from here. Get you a book.> Sandy floated off to one of his bookshelves, while Pitch stared at the space next to Sandy’s throne. _Well, I do have permission—_ He began to slowly call the black sand, shaping it as it arrived into a chair that looked like it was being held by some sort of cephalopod with dozens of arms. Some of the arms curled around to the front of the chair to overlap and form what was a footrest, but, Pitch hoped, did not look immediately like one. Sandy nodded in approval as he returned with a slim volume with a beautiful cover, illustrated with rich dark reds and blues, alleviated by flashes of bright gold. Below the title, two human figures, almost nude, were drawn, the man appearing to be hiding his face in fear, while the woman looked up in wonder.

 

            “ _Songs of Innocence and of Experience_. You know, Sandy, this seems very familiar. I can’t remember exactly…” He thumbed the pages, which proved to be just as elaborate as the cover.  <William Blake.> Sandy picked up the book he had been reading and resettled into his throne. <We both liked him a lot.>

 

            “I’m glad he was around when printing was around, then,” said Pitch, climbing into his own chair. “I can pretend to meet him once more.”

           

It was difficult to read poetry and control nightmares from Dreamland at the same time, and it took Pitch longer than he thought it would to finish the book. He had noticed that Sandy had put down one book and picked up another. When he was done, he didn’t feel compelled to say anything to Sandy, but instead began to call more black sand, forming it into something only partially complete. As he worked, he found that the only things he had to say were lines from one of the poems in the book. “Tiger, Tiger! burning bright,/In the forests of the night;/What immortal hand or eye./Could frame thy fearful symmetry?” Sandy looked up from his book—truth be told, he had been staring at the same page of proverbs for several minutes—to see the half-formed shape emerging from Pitch’s fingertips. It was currently skeletal, though quite large already—perhaps eleven feet from one end to the other.

 

Sandy realized what Pitch was doing, and without having to be asked, called up some dreamsand of his own, and, with utmost care, sent it to settle into the spaces between the black sand. Pitch smiled at Sandy as he began to help form the creature, but said nothing except to continue reciting the poem.

 

Nightmare sand and dreamsand edged against each other seamlessly. “…And what shoulder, and what art,/Could twist the sinews of thy heart?...” It was not a real tiger, no, real tigers were not so very bright, not so very dark. “…When the stars threw down their spears/And water’d heaven with their tears:/Did he smile his work to see?/Did he who made the Lamb make thee?” Both Sandy and Pitch left their chairs to put the final touches on its face. It was a jeweled thing, perfect. With a fingertip Pitch added pupils to the golden irises Sandy had placed with a thumbprint. “…What immortal hand or eye./Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?”

 

Sandy looked up to Pitch, who was standing, gazing down at their tiger with a faraway look in his eyes. He tugged on his robe, and a little tiger appeared above his head, running and leaping, followed by a question mark.

 

“I thought you knew,” Pitch said quietly, as if afraid of breaking the moment. “We just need to give it a name. No,” he sighed, “two names. You say...in whatever way you can…yours in her right ear, and I will say mine in her left. Then neither of us will be able to control her.” The thought apparently pleased him, though Sandy was more skeptical. This tiger was going to be very powerful—perhaps Pitch didn’t understand how powerful—and perhaps was not the wisest thing to grant independence to.

 

“She will only answer to both her names at once.” Pitch knelt down on the tiger’s left side, and Sandy moved to her right. “Do you have a name?” Sandy thought for a moment, then nodded. “Good,” whispered Pitch. “Now.”

 

“Chiaroscuro” whispered one. “Supernova” whispered the other. The tiger blinked and turned her massive head to look at Sandy, then Pitch. She sniffed at each of them tentatively, stretched, and began to walk around the throne room.

 

“Oh, Sandy—let’s send her out into the real world. She’ll be safe, who would dare touch her? And there’s so much gold in her—she wouldn’t harm anybody.”

 

Sandy nodded slowly. As the tiger moved around the room, it was becoming clearer and clearer to him what she would be. More dream than nightmare, yet partaking of both, she was a creature of rational courage. Of acknowledging that change was frightening, but deciding to take the risk anyway. In all her being moved the idea that the phrase “look before you leap” did not mean “don’t leap”. Not all mortals knew this, and so she was needed. He understood that it was absolutely vital for her to go out into the world, though he did not quite share Pitch’s perfect confidence in her safety. Yet, like all dreamsand creations, he knew he would be able to find her in an instant if he needed to. He opened a door in the air in front of the tiger to where it was midnight. As soon as she smelled the night air blowing through, she leaped through.

 

“Had we ever done anything like that before?” asked Pitch. Sandy shook his head. “I wonder why.”

 

After a pause, Pitch picked up the _Songs_. “Thank you for showing me this book, Sandy. I take it there is more he wrote? I happened to glance over at your book in between poems, and it seemed to have illustrations in the same style.” Sandy nodded. “Will you show me it?” Sandy nodded again, this time a bit reluctantly. He handed Pitch his book, taking _Songs_ and floating away to reshelve it. “ _The Marriage of Heaven and Hell_. That’s,” Pitch swallowed, “that’s an interesting title.” Sandy floated back over to Pitch, looked him in the eyes, and nodded once more. They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, before Pitch looked away and wandered toward the windows.

 

“Sandy…should I go? I don’t want to neglect the Nightmare Realms…this isn’t my place…perhaps I should go and see what our tiger is doing…we could both go do that, really…and the Nightmare Realms are of course open to you again…”

 

Sandy floated over to Pitch. “I can tell you’re anxious about something. Is it the tiger? Maybe we should go and check…No, Sandy, let me be honest. I don’t want to go anywhere else right now. I want to stay here, where it’s warm. Where I have…a friend.”

 

Sandy rested his head on Pitch’s shoulder. <I think you should try dreaming in Dreamland.>

 

“That does sound good.” Sandy smiled and took Pitch’s hand, leading him out of the throne room. He brought them to a bedroom nearby, separated from the hallway by massive golden doors that depicted instructions for the care of hybrid peacock-feather/bone china poppies. Inside, it was very spacious, with a large bed piled with at least a dozen fluffy pillows set against one wall, a fireplace big enough for Pitch to lie down in set in the other—currently burning pale logs with buttery flames that looked like ferns and were much cooler than ordinary flames, and a bank of windows with no glass letting in the sea breeze, which seemed to be freshening, taking up the entire wall opposite the door.

 

“Is this your room?” Pitch asked, looking around as Sandy closed the doors behind him and busied himself in turning down the thick duvet and arranging the pillows into a nestlike u-shape. “No, it can’t be. If you don’t want excessive space normally, you wouldn’t want a bed big enough for a gymnastics floor routine. At least I don’t think so.”

 

Sandy smiled and shook his head, settled on a pillow and patted the bed. Pitch climbed in, and just as he was settling his head on a pillow, Sandy flew to the edge of the duvet and flipped it over both of them. “Sandy!” Pitch wrestled the thick blanket down below his chin, and when he was comfortable he turned on to his side to find Sandy’s face close to his. A quick glance assured him that he had indeed settled onto the same pillow. Pitch felt himself at a loss, getting nervous. This seemed different from all the times Sandy slept next to him, or even in his arms, in the nightmare realms. All those times, nothing had been asked, nothing had been offered, save dreams. He had never invited Sandy to bed, and Sandy had never prepared a bed for him while he was awake. And he could not help but want this to mean something different—no.

 

Sandy smiled at his surprised and puzzled expression. And yet, Pitch could tell Sandy was afraid of something, something to do with him, though he hid the specifics very well. Was he afraid of Pitch taking this moment the wrong way? That fear was sadly justified, and Pitch hated that it was a fear for Sandy. But he would never act on anything like that.

 

The moment stretched on. “So…” said Pitch, “isn’t this the moment where you use your dreamsand to send me to sleep?” <Usually,> replied Sandy. Then he scooted forward and kissed Pitch on his beaky nose.

 

Immediately, Pitch sat up and leaned against the wall, knees up, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. He could not see Sandy’s expression of dismay. “Sandy, I didn’t want to have to have this conversation now, because you’ll probably send me straight out of Dreamland when I explain myself, but I need to tell you that, that, we’ve got to have some sort of boundaries. And why boundaries? You’re the Sandman, who wouldn’t want to be close to you? Everything about you makes me feel better than I am on my own. It’s your nature. I don’t know how you’ve stood all those nights you curled up with me, since I can only assume I make you feel worse than you do on your own, given my nature being the opposite of yours.” Pitch took a deep breath. Sandy grasped what the rest of his babbling was going to be, and lay on his side with his head resting on his hand to wait it out, his fear ebbing away, replaced by annoyance that he was probably going to have to use yet more words to explain things to Pitch. Well, he could use sand shapes, but the poor fellow was going through a lot right now and he didn’t want to shock him too badly.

 

“And, and, Sandy, forgive me I’ve been so lonely, and then you were there, touching me, and I knew, I know it’s just out of pity or a sense of fairness, or friendship now, but I, I…began to wish…that it meant more…and now tonight I could feel some of your fear and I could tell it had to do with me and this is probably what you were afraid of, but I promise, Sandy, that I would never do anything to hurt you, though what kind of a promise is that from someone who tried to kill you and who, the week before Halloween, caused you such fear and I’m sure you could tell I liked it and I’m surprised you came back after that, but anyway I can set myself boundaries but Sandy you’ve got to help me and what I’m trying to say is that I don’t want you to kiss me at all, especially in play, because that is what I want more than anything else in the world but it can’t be what you want, and I’m so so sorry. I should have told you this sooner. You can send me back to the Nightmare Realms now.”

 

Sandy’s smile had more than a little bit of mischief in it as he floated over to Pitch. He licked his lips, then, quickly, so as to surprise him, pushed down Pitch’s knees, pulled his arms away from his face, took Pitch’s face in his hands and leaned forward to plant a firm kiss on   
Pitch’s mouth.

Pitch’s jaw dropped in surprise, which Sandy took as an opportunity to deepen the kiss and begin to explore Pitch’s mouth with his tongue. Finally, after centuries…he tasted a little bit like leaf-smoke, a little bit like cocoa, and yes, he was kissing back, as Sandy knew he would.

 

Pitch felt like there were a lot of important objections he needed to be making, but he couldn’t think of a single one. Sandy was being very slow and thorough with his kisses, and Pitch knew he was never going to forget this first taste of his cinnamon-vanilla-sugar-sweetness. Sandy let go of Pitch’s face and reached down to slide his hands beneath the collar of his robe to caress the bare gray skin underneath. Pitch was suddenly reminded of the fact that Sandy was responsible for all dreams, and moaned into Sandy’s mouth. He felt him smile and little hands traced his collarbones and around his adam’s apple.

 

Then, unbidden—for what could he possibly care about other than Sandy’s lips and tongue right now—he noted the twinge of fear again, coming from Sandy, and having to do with him. Reluctantly, he pulled away. “Sandy,” he said, a little breathless, “before we go on, you have to let me see what you’re afraid of right now, that has to do with me. Otherwise, I’m not sure if I can believe that this is what you want.”

 

Sandy, who had been straddling Pitch while they kissed and was pretty sure that the Boogeyman did not want to stop, rolled his eyes. But he still took a deep breath and let down the mental barriers that he had made to hide his fears.

 

One of the fears that came to Pitch was what he had suspected, given the kiss. It was the fear that Pitch would reject Sandy and this kind of love that he offered once more, as he had seventy years ago. This was rapidly fading. The other was odder. It was a fear that Pitch, having agreed to love him, would be put off by a bit of shapeshifting that Sandy had done in preparation of their lovemaking. And that shapeshifting was…

 

<I didn’t know what you wanted, so I got you one of each.> Sandy was blushing furiously. <Also I thought it might be more fun for me. But> Sandy ground down on Pitch <now I can tell you think it’s a good idea.> Pitch only moaned again. <Now do you believe that I know what I want?> Pitch nodded and Sandy’s mouth was on his again.

 

Sandy pulled Pitch away from the wall so that he was lying on the bed, still kissing him, trying to caress as much of his upper body as he could, only to be thwarted by the robe. Fortunately Pitch got the idea and made it disappear, along with his leggings and shoes. Sandy floated up from Pitch, breaking the kiss—with a lost little noise from Pitch—to get a chance to finally see all of the Nightmare King. He could only imagine what images were forming above his head right now as he gazed at the slender elegance of Pitch’s form, all for him. He licked his lips. It was definitely a good idea that he had prepared himself to be very…accommodating.

 

“Sandy, you look so greedy up there. Why don’t you come and take what you want?” Sandy grinned, floating down to Pitch’s right hand and kissing each fingertip, then the palm, then the wrist, and so on up his arm. He ran his tongue over Pitch’s collarbones and kissed his way down Pitch’s left arm. Then, again very thoroughly, as if he was trying to memorize Pitch, Sandy began to make his way slowly down his chest, nipping and sucking until Pitch was covered in love bites and stammering out swears in languages ten thousand years dead.

 

He paused and sat up, smiling smugly, wiggling a bit against Pitch’s erection, which pressed hard against his lower back. With a shuddery breath, Pitch reached up to run long-fingered hands through Sandy’s whisper-soft hair, a dazed expression on his face. He stroked the smooth, downy roundness of Sandy’s cheek, let his thumb trace the outlines of Sandy’s lips. “You have such beautiful skin,” he breathed. “I’d like to touch more of it.” And so Sandy let his garments fall away. A little, wondering, open-mouthed smile grew on Pitch’s face as his hands began to explore Sandy’s body oh so carefully, oh so gently, as if he was still unsure if he was allowed. Sandy leaned his head back as Pitch pulled him forward and began to plant soft, wet, kisses on his belly.

 

It was all so good, but Sandy realized that he was going to have to take control again if he ever wanted Pitch inside him. Which he did. Right now. And he wanted to be kissing Pitch again and he really wanted to make Pitch unable to form coherent sentences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blanket octopuses are actually real animals.


	8. Winterlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack Frost notices some strange things going on.

While Sandy was getting everything he wanted, Jack Frost noticed that something odd was going on with his globe. Of course, it still felt strange to him to have a globe at all, much less a permanent home. The playground of ice was somewhere in the arctic, sort of—North had explained it but it hadn’t made much sense to him at the time. But no matter how everything actually worked, an icy globe twinkling with a few precious lights stood at the center, underneath a dome of clear ice held together with intricate lattices of snow. Now, that globe was blooming with lights where it was night, and, strangely, a lot of them were appearing near the equator. The lights mostly didn’t stay on, but it was all still very weird.

 

Jack considered for a moment. North was the closest person he could ask about this, but seeing as it was November he definitely wouldn’t have time to talk. Tooth! He would go see her and ask about this. The wind would carry him easily to the Tooth Palace in the sky. He ran outside and was carried away in an instant.

 

Tooth didn’t seem surprised to see him. “Jack! You’re here about the globe, aren’t you? I thought you would be, it’s been happening with mine as well.”

 

“Yeah, and it’s great, but I can’t understand how kids who have never even seen snow are believing in me, even for a moment.”

 

“You noticed how it’s only happening where it’s night now? Sometimes we all get these surges of belief when Sandy sends out particularly vivid dreams. Remember how we were all restored so quickly after our last battle with Pitch? His dreams made that happen. He’s the oldest of us, you know, and can do things the rest of us don’t really understand. Sometimes I think he’s the lynchpin of everything we do. That’s why Pitch went after him, you know. Probably also why Sandy was able to come back.”

 

“I wonder why he’s doing this now, though.”

 

Tooth laughed. “Why now? Why not? Sandy always does what he wants, and it’s a credit to the Man in the Moon’s choice that he always chooses to do good things. Now, Jack, I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to get back to work.”

 

“All right, see you later!”

 

Instead of going back to the globe and his new home—which could be kind of boring—Jack decided to go out into the night, bring some early snow showers where he could, and maybe say hi to Sandy if he could find him.

 

Tooth had been right. There was a lot of dreamsand visible in the skies over North America, and as Jack flew over Colorado he thought he saw Sandy below him, though why he would be standing on the ground, in a forest, he didn’t know. Light as a leaf, he swooped down, only to find that the glowing creature before him was definitely not the Guardian of Dreams.

 

“Whoa!” He settled on a branch, prepared to leap away if the glimmering tiger below him decided to make any threatening movements. It blinked at him, then rolled over on its back, tilting its head. “Ha, no way kitty. I’ve seen too many mini versions of you act like they want a belly rub and then decide they want to scratch you to bits.” The tiger got up, chuffed, and wandered deeper into the woods. Its light was visible for a long time.

 

Jack let himself relax. “Okay, that was weirder than the globe thing. It _was_ dreamsand, but it still had black stripes. But only Pitch controls black sand.”

 

“Hey Bunny!”

 

Bunnymund jumped, nearly upsetting his paints. “You know, I’m beginning to regret telling you how to get to the Warren whenever you want.”

 

“No you’re not—what else were you going to do today if I hadn’t shown up? Anyway, I saw something really strange when I was outside tonight.”

 

“Yeah? Well, you’re young yet, soon enough nothing people do will surprise you.”

 

“I think this will surprise even you.”

 

“Fine, try me.”

 

“I saw a tiger. In a forest in Colorado. And it was made of dreamsand, or at least the gold parts of it were. But it still had black stripes like a real tiger, and I think they were made of black sand.”

 

“Black sand? But that would mean Pitch. Are you sure about what you saw?”

 

“Pretty sure.”

 

“But all put together with dreamsand like that—it didn’t try to attack you, did it?” Jack shook his head. “Did the black sand look like it was spreading?”

 

“No.”

 

“Well then, I’m going to guess it’s something Sandy’s doing. I mean, we haven’t heard of Pitch being up to his old tricks lately. Frankly, he couldn’t recover that fast. You probably met the tiger in the woods because he didn’t want to give it to anyone as a dream in case the black sand started taking over. Maybe he’s working on a way to more easily control the black sand when Pitch starts getting troublesome again.”

 

“I guess that makes sense. Still kind of freaky to run into, though.”

 

“Freaky? Jack, it’s something Sandy’s doing. The man refuses to talk even though he could, and out of any weapon he could create with dreamsand, fights with whips. If he didn’t look so cuddly, freaky is all he’d be. You ever been to Dreamland? _Weird_ place.”

 

“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it, seeing as how you’re surrounded by ambulatory eggs at the moment.”

 

Bunny rolled his eyes. “Don’t you have places to be?”

 

“As a matter of fact I do—though the first snow day of the year is a very moveable feast, and I could stay and chat.” Jack grinned at him.

 

“Come on, Jack, think of all the boring and depressing documentaries children will be forced to watch if you keep getting lazy with the snow.”

 

“All right, all right—see you later!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for fading to black from the previous chapter.


	9. Lucid Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandy shows Pitch how to have a lucid dream. Jack has a conversation with Pitch.

In Dreamland, Pitch cuddled close to Sandy, his long arms wrapped around his round body. Sandy’s head was tucked under his chin. Pitch sighed contentedly. They were both still nude, and he relished the feeling of skin against skin. He lightly stroked Sandy’s back as he felt himself getting sleepier and sleepier. Sandy had been so…overwhelming, really, that he hadn’t had to work too hard to restrain himself from trying or suggesting anything too scary or weird. No, no, it had been nothing but wonderful, even when he suspected that Sandy was deliberately trying to make him lose control. He had, at least, succeeded in making Pitch become rather embarrassingly vocal, but surely the clarinet-bird wouldn’t tell anyone…

 

He was just about to nod off when Sandy wriggled up to look him in the eye before kissing him sloppily. He did not look sleepy in the slightest, and when he pulled away from the kiss was sporting a wickeder grin than ever. “Sandy…?”

 

<Don’t worry. I’m going to let you sleep. But I’m also going to show you how to have a lucid dream.> Pitch’s eyes widened in surprise before dreamsand pushed him into sleep. Sandy followed closely.

 

The vivid color of the landscape around him nearly dazzled Pitch at first. He was standing in a brightly sunlit grassy hollow amidst rolling hills. Under his feet, which were bare, he felt the fresh lushness of long green grass, which was dotted with flowers of brilliant, jewel-like shades. To his right, a weeping willow formed a shady bower. It was hard to see through the branches, but as one knows things in dreams, he knew that there was a simple round mattress resting on the ground within. Above, the sky was a creamy blue so thick one couldn’t imagine the darkness of space lurking beyond, dotted here and there with clouds that looked a lot like various sea creatures. He knew he was dreaming.

 

He lay down on the grass, spreading his arms wide. He was still naked, but that didn’t really bother him. The turf was so comfortable, and in dreams he could admit that he wanted to bask in the sunlight. Real sunlight made him weak, and often hurt, but here he could just soak it in, letting it gild his gray skin. He closed his eyes and let his lips part in a smile of utter relaxation.

 

Recalling Sandy’s expression before he sent him to sleep, Pitch was not entirely surprised to feel a series of kisses begin at his ankle and start to work their way up his leg after only a few moments had passed. He was very surprised, though, when a second series of kisses began at his other ankle while the first ones continued. His eyes snapped open and he pushed himself up to his elbows. At one leg was a plump, sleek golden woman, and at the other was a plump, sleek golden man. He looked wildly from one to the other. “S-Sandy?” They both nodded simultaneously. “Explanation, please?”

 

<Does this bother you?> The mental voice seemed to come from the precise midpoint between them. “No,” Pitch said, feeling a warm flush spread through his body and suddenly finding it difficult to speak. “No, not at all.”

 

<Good.> They said and resumed kissing, now and then one or the other punctuating their ministrations with a little bite or lick, which became truly maddening as they reached his upper thighs. <In dreams, easier, quicker shapeshifting. More options. Don’t think you can while your body is in Dreamland. Doesn’t matter. Time for that later. Also good in dreams, no one gets tired.>

 

“Sandy, what are you going to _do_ to me?” In reply, the man and the woman licked slow, long stripes up the sides of Pitch’s cock, causing him to lean his head back and groan. When they saw that he had regained enough composure to look at them, they glanced at each other and began to kiss each other with lingering, open-mouthed kisses. “That’s not fair,” Pitch said weakly, watching the two golden beings enjoy themselves, seemingly oblivious to his presence yet clearly putting on a show. After several dazed moments, Pitch reached up to embrace both of them, pulling them down onto the grass with him. They eagerly included him in their attentions.

 

Much later, when Pitch awoke, he had a brief moment of panic— _I dreamt all that and Sandy’s right here and so close he knows what I dreamt and I’ll never be able to explain this the threesome was the most normal thing_. In an instant though he recalled that the dream sex had been Sandy’s idea. In fact rather a lot of things had been Sandy’s idea. The little figure looked so peaceful and innocent, curled up against Pitch’s chest, but Pitch knew very well by now that Sandy had surreal and greedy streaks a mile wide—and he loved him for it.

 

Pitch kissed Sandy very lightly on the forehead. “Somehow, I don’t think reading books and watching movies prepared me for the recent sort of distractions,” he whispered. “I must attend to my duties.” With a fingernail directing black sand, he wrote _Seek me in the Nightmare Realms_ on the golden sheets.

 

            He left Dreamland through the shadows under the bed he and Sandy had shared, knowing now that he would always be able to travel back via that route. Back in the Nightmare Realms, the chill reminded him to remake his clothing. He decided for his robe to have a closed, high collar this time—not that he was going to run into anyone that would be able to see him or the marks that Sandy had made, but they were _his_ marks and he didn’t want to take any chances.

 

            Outside, the night was mostly uneventful, though there were a few times he got distracted by recent memories while creating nightmares and had to quickly go catch them before someone ended up with a simultaneous phobia of and paraphilia regarding something.

 

            He was in North America, spreading some necessary fear about what lurked in lakes scummed with thin ice, when, much to his displeasure, Jack Frost showed up.

 

            “Pitch Black?! You’re looking, um, healthy?” He hovered some distance away, waiting to see if he was going to attack, no doubt.

 

            “Yes, I’m sure it’s quite shocking. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m very busy.” He began to walk away, but Frost kept pace with him.

 

            “Busy? I don’t think you’re supposed to be busy.”

 

            “I’ve been busy for several months now, Jack. If you haven’t noticed any problems associated with that, maybe there aren’t any.”

 

            Frost became thoughtful. True, all the Guardians, including himself, had been going strong since the battle. Still, this was Pitch, and it was only reasonable to be wary. “What exactly were you doing out here?”

 

            “Oh, something I think you’ll appreciate. I was sending out a great many warnings—terrifying yes, but that is what I do—to the sleeping children around here about the dangers of thin ice. I think their parents will appreciate that, don’t you?”

 

            “The ice I came here to make won’t break,” Frost said, glaring at him.

            Pitch waved away his comment. “Yes, but you weren’t here until just now, and you can’t be everywhere, can you?” This remark seemed to silence Frost, and Pitch started to leave again.

 

            “Hey, wait a second!”

 

            Pitch’s mouth hardened into a thin line. If this was going to be an attack, Jack should have just done so, and if this was meant to be a pleasant conversation, it was a miserable failure. “What?” He whirled around, trying to convey his extreme annoyance in every angle of his posture.

 

            “Oh, hey, you’ve changed your clothes. For a while I wondered why you didn’t wear something more practical for the cold, but then I figured, whatever, we’re immortal. But then again I’m not so good at telling when people are cold or not—anyway your first outfit was weird and this one is better.”

 

            “Jack. Was that inane commentary the reason you called me back?”

 

            “Nope. I actually have a question about something that’s going on, and you are the second most likely person to have an answer.”

 

            “Really? Oh do tell. Why don’t you ask the first most likely person?”

 

            “Because I haven’t seen Sandy in a while, that’s why.” Frost didn’t notice Pitch’s eyes widen ever so slightly at that statement. “So, anyway, for the past week or so, the hot topic of conversation among kids and adults—though less so with adults, and when they do talk about what the actual content was I can see why the others would be reluctant to share—has been their particularly bizarre and vivid dreams. Got any insight into that?”

 

            “A _week_?”

 

            “Maybe a week and a half. I wasn’t paying that much attention, because I was trying to figure out what was up with this tiger I ran into, but that’s another story. So—wait—are you…blushing?”

 

            “Jack, does this look like a face that can blush to you?”

 

            “Honestly, no, but you still seem to be doing so.”

 

            “Well, believe what you like. As for the dreams, that is still Sandy—Sandman’s area, so you should really ask him about it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I really must be going.”

 

            Before Frost could say anything else, Pitch slipped into the shadows within a poorly closed cellar door and was immediately back in the Nightmare Realms.


	10. Big Eyes See More Than Wonder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are a lot of song references, Jack visits North, North knows what's up, Jack learns some surprising new information and North gives him a toothbrush.

Pitch could tell that Sandy was there and waiting for him as soon as he arrived, because who other than Sandy would be playing music that echoed around the entire world? He listened for the lyrics of the song currently playing.

 

            _Exit light_

_Enter night_

_Take my hand_

_We’re off to never-never land_

 

Pitch smirked. Most of the time, he failed to recognize pop-culture things until Sandy introduced them to him, but he knew this song. Quite liked it too. He wondered if Sandy knew that he knew the title of the song and that it seemed a bit suggestive in the context of the two of them. Probably. He considered ducking through the shadows to the throne room, but he was curious to see what other songs Sandy would select as he waited and decided to walk.

 

***

 

            “Jack!” North pulled him into a bear hug. “Welcome! But this had better be important. It is November fifteenth, you know. Walk with me.”

 

            Even knowing that the Workshop got busier and busier as the year waned and having observed if from the outside many times, Jack couldn’t help but be a little awestruck at the almost-chaotic but well-oiled machinery that was North’s place in full-steam preparation for Christmas.

 

            “Talk to me. I am paying attention, I promise. But must do three things at once right now, you know?”

 

            “Okay, I little while ago while I was out, I ran into Pitch.”

 

***

 

            _With a taste of your lips, I'm on a ride_

_You're toxic, I'm slippin' under_

_With a taste of a poison paradise_

_I'm addicted to you, don't you know that you're toxic?_

***

            North stopped walking, giving instructions to yetis, and carving a toy trumpet out of ice to look directly at Jack. “Pitch? Did he attack you? Are you all right?”

 

            “I’m fine, I’m fine. In fact, he wasn’t really acting like the Pitch we defeated in the spring. I mean, he was still a jerk, but he didn’t seem murderous or anything. Actually, what was really weird was that when I mentioned that everyone seemed to be having really vivid dreams lately, for a week or so, he blushed. Or I think he blushed. Can beings made of fear and darkness blush?”

 

            “I do not know. But, Jack, has anything else strange been happening lately?”

 

            “A few things, yeah. There was this tiger, and I gained temporary believers at the equator…”

 

            “Hmm. We must talk. We will go to my workroom. Yetis can usually manage on their own for a while until December.”

 

***

           

            _My guilty pleasure, I ain't going nowhere_

_Baby 'long as you're here, I'll be floating on air_

_'Cause you're mine_

_You can be a sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare_

_Either way I don't wanna wake up from you_

 

***

 

“Did Pitch say what he was doing?” North asked, offering Jack a plate of cookies.

 

            “Actually, yes. He said he was warning kids about thin ice.” He took a cookie and nibbled at it.

 

            “And this is where the still-being-a-jerk part comes, yes? But this…I have always wondered about Pitch. No, this is not true. When I was a new Guardian, everything was very clear. But after a few hundred years, began to wonder a little bit. We all were created with purpose, why not Pitch? It cannot be he is here just for us to fight—we don’t need that to keep ourselves busy! But he seemed so harsh and cruel—seemed, he was! But then—here, Jack, watch.” North walked over to the roaring fireplace and calmly placed his hand in the flames.

 

            “Whoa whoa whoa! What are you doing?!” Jack dropped the remaining half of his cookie and jumped up toward North, who waved at him to sit down and took his hand out of the fire, turning it this way and that to show Jack he was unharmed.

 

            “Jack, this is fire that I made. It is quite beautiful, no? It is warm, but does not burn. A wonderful thing. It is like all the things I make. If a child asks for a chemistry set, the one I bring them will never poison them. If they ask for some building set with many little pieces, the one I bring will never tempt their little brothers and sisters to swallow the pieces and choke. The capes I send will protect from a jump from the roof.

 

            “But I do not make all the toys, and I do not make all the fire. And you cannot tell what I made or did not make by looking. When I put my hand in the fire, you were afraid for me, were you not?”

 

            “Yeah—I was afraid you were hurting yourself, that you’d gone crazy or something.”

 

            “Because you know that there is danger in fire! Even we immortals know that. We try to minimize the dangers when we can—we are Guardians, after all—but we cannot be everywhere, and the dangers still exist.

 

            “That is where I wonder if Pitch’s center might not be. We Guardians might want to see the curious child skip boldly across the tree bridging the river, full of excitement to explore the other side, and Pitch stops that by telling the child about the danger of the rushing water below. If there is balance, maybe the child decides to still cross the river, but crawling instead. And the child does not fall off.”

 

            “So why not tell Pitch this?”

 

***

 

            _Some of them want to use you_

_Some of them want to get used by you_

_Some of them want to abuse you_

_Some of them want to be abused_

***

 

North shook his head. “I think it is too late. Do you remember World War II? The sheer scale—it was not something we had ever seen before. No Christmas truces then! We—Tooth, Bunny, and I—”

 

“Not Sandy?”

 

“Sandy was there when we talked, but he did not agree with our decision. More on that later. What happened was that we three, in conference with each other, discussed the mortals justification for their terrible deeds. One thing that was blamed was fear, leading to hatred. And who would be the source of that fear? No one but Pitch! This time, we said, he has gone too far. He must be stopped.

 

“Obviously, since he is still around, he escaped. But I think this was the last straw for him, his mind. Perhaps he had been telling parents to send their children into the countryside for fear of the bombs, while we assumed he had been inspiring an idea in others to kill millions. Even if Pitch was purely selfish, that idea does not make sense, I come to realize. The dead do not fear. He has nothing to gain by the death of mortals. But we assumed, and we attacked, and afterwards he was changed. More reckless, more vicious in his dealings with us. He seemed almost mad. Now, I think we may have made him into a monster he was never quite meant to be.”

 

“And so it’s just hopeless? Well I guess so, there’s not really a ‘sorry I accused you of inspiring genocide’ card you can just buy. Yeesh. Anything else I should know about the glorious history of the Guardians?”

 

“Jack.”

 

“No, really. I’d love to know.”

 

“Jack. Our actions then were wrong, or I at least have come to think so. But throughout the centuries, we have many times had to repair the harm Pitch did in his attempts to be seen. He set himself up as our enemy. He is no innocent. Think of what he did only a few months ago!”

 

“Okay, okay. But the situation is still a lot more complicated than you made it sound when you were recruiting me.”

 

“What doesn’t get complicated after six hundred years?”

 

“Yeah…so where does Sandy come into this?”

 

***

 

            _Oh so why don’t you meet me there_

_There is no nation of you_

_There is no nation of me_

_Our only nation lives in lucid dreams_

***

 

“Yes, Sandy. Sandy and Pitch were both already here when the rest of us Guardians were chosen. I asked Sandy how old they were, and—if I understood the dreamsand correctly—they are both about fifty thousand years old.”

 

“Holy shit! Uh, pardon my language, but that is a really, really, _really_ long time.”

 

“And I think—it is hard to understand Sandy at the best of times, you know—that they were the only immortals they knew of until we Guardians arrived. They know each other very well, at least.”

 

“I guess so—wow. I can’t even get my mind around it”

 

“You may have to stretch it more. Sandy always advocated for Pitch the best he could. Even—especially—at the end of World War II when we made our plan to eliminate him.”

 

“Sandy. Advocating for Pitch. The Sandy I know? Nothing but sweet dreams until you mess with those Sandy? Throws Pitch around like a ragdoll Sandy?”

 

“Gives Pitch dream of butterflies after coming back from his attempted murder Sandy?”

 

“Okay, but if he didn’t want you to kill Pitch seventy years ago, why didn’t he just plain stop you?”

 

“And sow discord among the Guardians? And Pitch did live.”

 

“Right…so, Sandy advocating for Pitch. What does this have to do with the weird things I’ve been noticing?”

 

***

 

_But I’d be yours_

_If you’d be mine_

_…_

_So love the one you hold_

_And I will be your gold_

_To have and to hold_

_A lover of the light!_

 

***

 

“I have guess, but first tell me more about exactly what you have seen.”

 

“Well first I noticed that I was getting a lot of new believers—mostly the lights didn’t stay on though. Tooth said that sometimes Sandy would send out vivid dreams and that would increase all our believers. Then I saw a tiger in a forest that was made out of what looked like a combination of dreamsand and black sand. It was really—beautiful, I guess. Not that I was going to get close! It was also really detailed, more than the animal shapes I see Sandy sending sometimes, that the kids’ imaginations can shape. Then, tonight, I saw Pitch, tell him that everyone’s been having vivid dreams for a week, so much that everyone’s talking about them, and he blushes, if that is even possible, and that’s basically all. Also Pitch is finally wearing weather-appropriate clothing.”

 

“Everyone having vivid dreams? Adults and children? You say they talk. What are their dreams about?”

 

“Oh, the kids are having normal kid dreams. Adventures, mostly, and especially strange ones. The adults though, uh…I guess you could _call_ them adventures…”

 

“You do know that Sandy is responsible for all dreams, yes Jack?”

 

“I have this feeling that this conversation is going to get weird.”

 

“You were what? Seventeen, eighteen when you died? Surely the kind of dreams they are having do not surprise you.”

 

“Yep, getting weird. Sure, North, I know that, but after meeting Sandy all those years ago it just seemed sort of bizarre to think about. And everyone? Around the world? For a week straight? That isn’t normal.”

 

“Well, with dreams and tiger of two sands, Pitch blushing and seeming to be active without causing problems for us—maybe Sandy has found a way to help Pitch.”

 

“A way to help Pitch wha—” Jack stared at North for a long moment before blinking. “You cannot be serious.”

 

North shrugged. “Lots of little things over the centuries, you notice. Would not be surprised if Pitch has a bed to be in instead of under now.”

 

Jack pressed his fingertips to his temples. “I’m having a conversation with Santa about the Boogeyman’s sex life. Even saying that sentence seemed wrong. But…um, well, do we say anything? Do anything?”

 

 North shook his head and stood up. “I see no reason to. If Pitch becomes dangerous or harmful again we will stop him again. Until then, eh, only time will tell, but I do not think we should worry about Pitch being abroad in the world right now.” He went to unlock the workroom door. “I will say, perhaps do not tell Bunny and Tooth about this? They both suffered more personal damage at Pitch’s hands in the last battle. I doubt they would take such news well.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” They left the workroom, North resuming his mobile carving and order-giving.

 

“You know, North,” Jack laughed, “and here I’m going to make the conversation get weird—I’m honestly still kind of reeling from the idea that immortal spirits can have a sex life. For some reason I didn’t think it was possible…”

 

North raised his eyebrows at him. “You have plan for this new information?”

 

“Okay, let’s not make the conversation _that_ weird.”

 

North winked at him and handed him a toothbrush. “If you want to brush your teeth before leaving Workshop there is washroom near my workroom. Also you are both invited to Christmas party.”

 

“You see way too much, big guy. See you soon!”

 

North waved him on, before turning back to the yetis around him, who had stopped working to listen in. “What? Back to work everybody.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Sandy, I'd make fun of your taste in music but it's the same as mine...


	11. I'm Your Boogeyman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandy gets what he wants again and also says Pitch's name.

_I’m your boogeyman_

_That’s what I am_

_I’m here to do_

_Whatever I can_

_Be it early morning_

_Late afternoon_

_Or at midnight_

_It’s never too soon_

_I’m your boogeyman, I’m your boogeyman_

_Turn me on_

_I’m your boogeyman, I’m your boogeyman_

_Do what you want_

Pitch was not quite at the throne room when that song started playing, but he couldn’t resist making an entrance to it. He peered out of the shadows to see Sandy, dancing obliviously above the tilted floor. He moved so that he was behind Sandy and stayed so, and at the final repetition of “I’m your boogeyman” he whispered the line into Sandy’s ear.

 

Sandy jumped, but quickly regained his composure and floated up so he could kiss Pitch. <I know what you’re afraid of.>

 

_What?_ That really wasn’t what Pitch had expected Sandy to say, and he would have liked to respond, but Sandy wasn’t about to free his mouth so soon and let him respond. He pulled him over to the throne and broke the kiss as he pushed him to a seated position.

 

“Sandy, what do you mean? Also, um, frankly this wasn’t the conversation starter I expected when I found you here after last night—or should I say last week?” He tried to look stern, but felt himself starting to blush again.

 

Pitch hadn’t thought it was possible for someone to look so pleased with themselves. <So I got a little carried away.> Sandy floated down so he was sitting beside Pitch on the throne, his legs resting on Pitch’s lap.

 

“You could say that.” Against his will, Pitch’s blush grew deeper. “Some of those things—I’m glad they were all done in a dream, because even with your healing presence I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be sitting so comfortably right now.”

 

<As I recall, you suddenly remembered how to say ‘more’ in Proto-Elamite at that point so…> Sandy really thought it was charming that Pitch blushed purple.

 

“I’ve never claimed to make the best decisions all the time. But okay, what did you mean by knowing what I was afraid of?”

 

<You’re afraid that even though I’ve welcomed Pitch Black into my bed, I haven’t also welcomed the Nightmare King.>

 

Pitch frowned. “What do you mean?”

 

<You act like you think I’m fragile. Like you’re afraid to break me. Like you don’t know what you would do if you were allowed to take control.>

 

“Sandy, I _don’t_ know—”

 

Sandy put his hand over Pitch’s mouth. <First of all, you consciously know that I’m pretty much indestructible. Secondly, after last night—week, I think you’d understand that even if I taste like vanilla, I’m not.>

 

“Sandy, _physically_ I concede your points. But it’s not just physical. The part of me that’s the Boogeyman, the Nightmare King—I want you, Sandy, but I also want to _terrify_ you.” Pitch looked up to the ceiling. “I don’t know if it’s because of your nature—that we are the same class of beings—or if it’s because I—because I love you, but when I taste your fear, it’s different than anything else I’ve ever experienced. I mean, the in-the-moment-fear, like before Halloween. Not the long-standing fears that you showed me before. I was quite happy to alleviate those.

 

“But when you were gripping my waist, teetering on the edge of panic…how can I explain it? I felt powerful. So very, very powerful. I was inside your mind, and it felt like you couldn’t kick me out. Maybe if you had let go…but you didn’t.” Pitch sighed. “We’ve both seen a lot of mortals alter their minds and bodies with various substances. For me, your fear was better than anything and everything they have tried to experience through those means.” He shook his head and closed his eyes. “This is fucked. But do you understand now why I’m afraid of being in control? Because I would no doubt lose control. When you’re not afraid, when we’re talking normally, like now, I know that if I had a choice, I would only bring you pleasure. But sensuality and fear are so easily linked for me, Sandy, when it comes to you.”

 

Finally, he looked back at Sandy, worried that he would be wearing an expression of disgust. Instead, a small smile played about his lips. <I wouldn’t be opposed to you making me scream.>

 

Sandy saw Pitch’s pupils dilate slightly at the thought. “No, Sandy, you don’t understand. I’m talking about real fear here. You couldn’t have liked that transition from the Nightmare Realms to the surface that night.”

 

<True, but you weren’t also trying to make the experience erotic then. For some reason you thought I didn’t want you that way even though I had practically moved into your lair and was sleeping in your bed whenever you slept—>

 

“Sandy this is serious! And you were uncertain about me just the same!”

 

Sandy waved his hands in a calming motion. <But I think that tonight you would want me to enjoy what you were doing. And I think that I will. I love you because you are the Nightmare King, not in spite of that.>

 

Pitch stared at him for a long moment. “Do you promise you’ll never make me regret believing you right now? Because I very much want to.” He reached out his hand to stroke Sandy’s cheek.

 

Sandy leaned his head into his hand. <I promise.> His serious expression then turned to a grin. <Now, I’d really like for the Boogeyman to fuck me, if he doesn’t mind.> Ah, there was the purple again. He was never going to get tired of that. <And if you’re still nervous, we can borrow a custom from the mortals. It’s called a safe word. If I don’t like what you’re doing, I’ll say ‘stop’. Aloud. That will probably startle you enough to snap you out of whatever’s going on in your head.>

 

“Sandy, but what if I can’t stop? This is a real possibility!”

 

<I think you would be able to stop for my sake. And if not, I’ll physically stop you. I know you’ve gotten a lot stronger lately…but I could still do that in basically any circumstance.>

 

“Mmmm…yes, I know.” Pitch’s voice had fallen slightly deeper. “But tonight…we pretend otherwise?”

 

Sandy nodded.

 

“All right. I still think you don’t know what you’ve asked for, but with you looking at me like that it’s not as though I could deny you.” Pitch took a deep, slow, breath and closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them a slow, scythe-like grin split his face. He picked up Sandy and positioned him so that he was sitting on his lap. “I will only ask once more. Is this really what you want?”

 

Sandy feels his breath catch in his throat. Yes, this is what he wants. Even if, seeing that smile on Pitch’s face, he almost feels like he should run.

 

But he’s not ready to relinquish control just yet. Without thinking too much about what he’s doing, he answers Pitch’s question by summoning a little dreamsand knife and using it to part the fabric of Pitch’s robe. Pitch watches the knife slide down ever so slowly, still wearing the same unsettling grin. When it reaches his navel, he grasps Sandy’s hand and takes it from him. Wrapping one long arm around Sandy’s back, Pitch looks into Sandy’s eyes, holding the golden knife between them.

 

“The time for your toys is over,” he says softly, and with a subtle twist of his fingers on the handle, the knife swiftly turns black and changes form, becoming longer, thinner. Pitch pulls Sandy close so that his ear is close to Pitch’s mouth. “What you wanted, Sandy,” Pitch purrs, using the knife to cut off Sandy’s clothing so that it falls in pieces to the floor. “Me in my realm with no one to hear you scream except the nightmares. And I do want to make you scream, Sandy, so very very badly. I want to hear my name pouring from your lips and throat whether you will or no.

 

“What you wanted, Sandy. Me in my realm where I am free to shift my form however I choose.” Sandy suddenly realizes that he’s being held by at least half a dozen arms. Four remain shadowy, insubstantial, but their light, teasing touches over his body are enough to make him achingly hard. His attention divided between the shadow hands and Pitch’s voice in his ear only becomes more fragmented as Pitch presses them even closer. Pitch’s lips now touch his ear as he speaks, and Sandy can feel the breaths he takes to form his words, the rumble in his throat as he releases each deep syllable.

 

“And is this what you wanted, Sandy? Me with my claws out—” Sandy feels Pitch’s true hands grow those claws and scrape down his back. He jerks forward as much as he can, and Pitch hums against his ear. “Me with my fangs out?” Sandy feels those newly-formed fangs nip his ear and gasps. It’s only breath still, not really a sound, but Pitch chuckles as if Sandy has given up some sort of victory far sooner than he imagined. The sound of Pitch’s laugh is like laudanum. He moves his head back just enough for Sandy to get a good view of his mouthful of fangs, which only makes his smile more terrifying.

 

That must have been the point, for Sandy realizes that he actually is rather scared right now, though he wouldn’t deny that he’s also equally aroused. Pitch nuzzles into his neck, and hums again in approval. He grips Sandy even tighter, his claws pressing into the soft skin of Sandy’s shoulders. Pitch licks Sandy’s neck leisurely, with a tongue that Sandy is pretty sure is a lot longer than normal. Then his fangs are lightly scraping over the spot he just licked, so lightly that Sandy suddenly feels sure that Pitch is just going to torture him like this for hours or even days, moving ever so slowly around his body with tongue and teeth and claws while he’s bound with shadows that keep him desperate. _If that’s what he’s thinking, this is going to be the last time he does that without_ warning _me first_ , thinks Sandy, when Pitch bites and most of Sandy’s thoughts disappear.

 

Has he?—It hurts—Pitch is licking the—wound?—And that feels good and finally those long gray fingers have closed around his cock but oh only too briefly and the fingers are going below and behind and Sandy suddenly worries about those claws because he’s kept the female aspect of his form from their first encounter, no sense in limiting the options and Pitch had liked it so much but what form will that liking take now—

 

Pitch gives a long, drawn-out moan and moves back enough so that Sandy can see his face. There’s dark golden blood on his lips—all over his mouth. A thin line runs from the corner of his mouth, down his chin, and, as Pitch tips his head back, down his neck to pool in the hollow of his throat. “Sandy, Sandy, Sandy—even—even your blood is sweet.”

 

Sandy shivers and he knows he was going to let Pitch be in control but maybe he could make them get horizontal now and now Pitch is drawing a line down his chest with Sandy’s blood oh so slowly and he can’t look away but the shadowy hands are getting more solid and they’ve got his wrists and ankles and! There must be more now because thankfully clawless fingers have pressed into him, wrapped around him. They begin to move so slowly and he shudders again and why oh why whether shy or sadistic must Pitch be so _patient_. Then the hands are pulling him farther away and tilting him so that he can’t see Pitch anymore, and that does make him nervous. They bring him to rest with his back on a big, black, four-poster bed with heavy curtains now drawn back that wasn’t in the throne room a moment before. Sandy spares a thought to be impressed by that, especially the texture of the velvet coverlet, but honestly he’s far more impressed by the shadow hands right now and then the ones at his center are gone.

 

He lifts his head to look over his belly, as if perhaps the shadow hands just needed a stern look to come back, but of course there’s nothing there. He leans back again, closing his eyes. The hands on his wrists and ankles prevent him from doing anything else, and maybe he has underestimated Pitch’s strength, but before he can think about that Pitch appears, seemingly out of nowhere, standing on the bed, looming over Sandy, stark naked, smirking, marked with Sandy’s blood and fully erect and suddenly Sandy hopes he will be patient and also that he won’t and <Remember I can’t shapeshift here.> He knows the dreamsand is forming shapes above his head right now but he can’t control it at all in this state. Whatever he’s saying, it widens Pitch’s smirk.

 

“Don’t worry Sandy,” Pitch says, and a shadow hand appears to stroke his face.  “You’ll be ready when I want you to be. But that’s not what we’re going to do right now. You see, I’ve copied one of your ideas.”

 

_What?_ Sandy thinks but then Pitch is standing with his long long legs on either side of Sandy’s hips and Sandy can only stare at how Pitch has copied him. “I see I’ve rendered you speechless,” Pitch says wryly, and drops to his knees. Sandy bucks his hips upward but Pitch’s long thighs still prevent any contact from being made.

 

More shadow hands begin to creep up towards Sandy from the sides of the bed. “When we were in Dreamland I only wished I could touch all of your skin at once, Sandy.” His speech has a sing-song quality to it. “And that’s what I’m going to do now. I’m going to cover you so completely that none of your light escapes from between all my hands. I’m going to take you inside me—in the way that you want, and in the way that I want.” He leans forward, oh so slowly, to deeply kiss Sandy and Sandy can’t help but be glad that Pitch is still kissing him while he’s in this mode, but would he just get on with it and!

 

Pitch sinks down on Sandy as he nips his lip and _okay_ Sandy thinks _maybe that bite wasn’t Pitch’s idea just then but it wasn’t like I was going to stay still as he did that and he better start moving—_ Pitch does start moving, using all his pretty horseback riding muscles and Sandy would have liked to watch more but the shadow hands come and suddenly there is no light. It’s almost impossible to move and there is no light and, yes, he is really afraid again but he feels good, so good, and it’s not as though he can’t _hear_ and though Pitch may be acting differently than he was last night, he certainly sounds the same, and yes, this is definitely what he wanted.

 

Later—how much later neither one of them is really sure—the simple relentlessness of teeth and claws and the myriad forms of shadows bring Sandy to the edge once more, and though neither of them is sure what is different about this time—it is not Sandy’s first time tonight—as he comes, he cries out, “Piiiii-iiiiiitch” in a gorgeous tenor that has Pitch following, even though he hadn’t thought he was close.

 

Pitch stares at him, panting, eyes wide, clearly shocked out of being the Boogeyman for a moment. It makes Sandy want to giggle, and well, he’s already spoken tonight, so why not? Pitch smiles up at him, a Dreamland smile, that quickly turns wicked and proud as he pulls Sandy toward him and begins to suck at his neck. It’s then that Sandy realizes he’s probably not going to be able to not make noise for Pitch anymore—and that the Nightmare King finds his voice highly encouraging.

 

Later—much later, so much so that Pitch will certainly be turning violet when he realizes, after Sandy has reassured an anxious Pitch that yes, he really did enjoy all that, when they are back in the bed in the throne room, sleepily cuddling under a blanket— _finally!_ Sandy thinks, _maybe he’ll get rid of that other bed now_ —Sandy decides that Pitch probably needs some real sleep—he knows he does—and dusts some dreamsand over them both. He doesn’t shape it into anything. Whatever it finds in both of their minds right now will no doubt be wonderful.

 

Pitch watches the dreamsand float slowly down onto his eyes and rubs his hand down Sandy’s newly smoothed back one more time before letting himself be washed onto the shores of sleep.

 

He’s pretty sure he knows why Sandy comes to him after everything they’ve done, after everything that’s happened. He’s pretty sure he knows why, and he knows he doesn’t mind.

 

“I love you,” he says, or maybe thinks, knowing that either way, Sandy will hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed! Pleasant dreams/nightmares!

**Author's Note:**

> The title of the fic is one of the proverbs of hell in William Blake's "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell". 
> 
> P.S. Guess who used to be a little girl with really long, tangle-prone hair and a horrible fear of moths? This author.


End file.
